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CLB:ni 1411 



BAZAAR DAILY 



10 Cents 



SATURDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1916 






No. 1 /-•' 



-'■.") 



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Talks of Peace. 



Before the Dawn. 

I woke before llie dawn, anJ far below 
My window in tlie cold, deserted street, 

Faltering along its pavements, sad and slow, 
1 heard the shufHe of approaching feet. 

Halting and aimless past the house they crept, 
TVIIing of one with no hope in his breast, 

No bourn bejond, and who, while others slept 
In sheltered safety, knew no place of rest. 

Down the lojig street, into the nigiit they went. 
Leaving behind them in my heart an ache, 

And a fresh wonder we can sleep content 
While in the world such misery is awake. 

Mildred Howkllj. 



BAZAAR DAILY ^ ' l&V »^ ,i' ^X^ 

r, pic*ing-ba 



A Sinner Saved. 



fa 



"Father," said his wife, "why ain't you m tavor o 
Milly's goin' with Henry Rokes?" 

Andrew Doane was standing under an apple tree in an 
interval of picking. He was a tall wiry man with stiff 
gray hair and eyes full of sharp broken gleams. They 
might have been the eyes of a fanatic or an inventor. 
Mother was a plump, blonde woman, all curves and 
pleasant amplitudes. She had a way of regarding him 
with a tolerant and yet despairing smile, as if she knew 
his inward thoughts and was compelled to ignore them 
in the face of his outward habit of speech. She was not 
used to calling him to account, and he stared at her from 
a dignified surprise while he answered in a tone that kept 
an unbroken level: 

"I_ ain't goin' to encourage a granddaughter of mine 
runnin' round with anybody that makes light o' sacred 
things." 

"O fcither," said his wife, "how can you.' Henry don't 
make light o' sacred things." 

"I know what I'm talkin' about," said her husband. 
"1 says to him not a week ago, 'I ain't committed a sin for 
thirteen year,' says I, an' he laughed. Henry laughed." 

"Father, you didn't!" 

"Didn't what.?" 

''You didn't go an' tell Henry you hadn't (.■omniitted 
a sin for thirteen year?" 

"I'd like to know why I didn't," said her husband, 
belligerently. "I've told you the same." 

"Why, yes, but I never paid no attention to it." This 
she said absently, for her mind was on Milly, who was 
in the house dressing for the Fair, and who was not yet 
sure whether grandfather would allow her to go. 

"I should like to know," continued Andrew, truculently, 
"why you never paid no attention to it." 

"Well, there," said she, soothingly, "mebbe 'twas 
because I'd heard it so often. It didn't seem to do nobody 
no harm; but if it's stirred you up about Henry, why, 
then, it seems to 'mount to suthin'." 

Andrew was still ruffled, and not to be assuaged. He 
took down the ladder from the tree and set it against the 
other side. 

"I ain't committed a sin for thirteen year," he repeated. 
"If you've heard me say it more'n once, 'twas as true then 
as 'tis now. If I said it a year ago, I said I hadn't com- 
mitted a sin for twelve year, an' if I said it two year ago, I 
said I hadn't committed a sin for 'leven. 'Twas thirteen 
year ago I begun to cherish a hope, an' I ain't backslid." 

"Well!" said his wife, in a tone of desjiairing finality. 
"Well, I must say!" She walked away a few steps and 
returned. "Father," said she, "Milly's changin' her 
dress, and if Henry can get off' he's goin' to take her over 
to the Fair. He dunno but he'll be late, so she's goin' 
tu meet him down to the cross-roads." 



Father began climbing the ladder, piding-basket 
hand. His wife came a step nearer. 

''Father!" said she. There was supplication in her 
voice. "I ain't told her she can't go." 

Andrew began picking. His face was resolutely set 
toward the tree, and she knew no response was to be ex- 
pected. But when he heard her walking away across 
the stubbly grass, he did turn, with a quick motion, to 
look after her. His watch-chain caught on the end of 
the ladder and the watch flew out of his pocket and fell. 
"The dogs!" said Andrew. That was the sole dilution 
of an oath he permitted himself. He descended hastily, 
picked up the watch and held it to his ear. It had stopped! 
"The dogs!" said Andrew again. 

Mrs. Doane walked thoughtfully back to the house, 
and at the veranda steps she found Milly waiting, a 
sweet vision, gray-eyed, and as pink as dawn. 

''Will he let me.?" she called, before grandmother was 
quite within speaking distance. 

Grandmother shook her head. 

"I dunno," she said 



nor vxhether he 
They had both 



'whether he wi 
won't." 

"Wouldn't he answer.?" asked Milly. 
accepted his fits of significant dumbness 

"What if you should wait a spell an' then run out an' 
ask him yourself.? You can make some excuse. Ask 
him what time 'tis or suthin'." 

"I shall want to know what time it is, anyway," said 
Milly. "The kitchen clock's been bejuggled ever since 
the man fixed it. Henry said if we didn't start from the 
corners by three, we'd miss the car." 

Grandmother sat down on a step and fanned herself 
with a grape-leaf. "Milly," said she, suddenly, "your 
grandfather's a real good man." 

Milly stared. "Why, yes," said she, "cour.<;e he is." 

''But I'd like to know," broke out giandniother, wrath- 
fully, "if anybody ain't committed any sin, what under 
the sun 'tis makes 'em so plaguey aggravalin'." 

"As grandfather.?" asked Milly. 

"No," returned grandmother, in virtuous denial. 
''Course I shouldn't say such a thing about grandfather. 
Course I shouldn't." 

The time went on and Milly dawdled about and made 
useless little errands into the house while grandmother 
regarded the landscape and fanned herself at intervals 
with the leaf. Finally it seemed to Milly that the 
moment of departure was at hand. 

'■ I guess I'll run out and speak to grandfather," she said. 

"I'll go with you," said grandmother, coming to her 
feet. "I kinder mistrust I'd better be there." 

Grandfather was picking the Hubbardston tree. He did 
not look down at them as their steps rustled the dry leaves 
beneath. Milly glanced up at him, and she decided that 
his back looked obstinate. But she had to speak. 

"Grandfather!" said she. Andrew did not move. 
He put the apples more carefully into his picking-basket. 
Grandmother thought she had never known the world 
to be so still. Milly called him again, in her clear young 
voice, and he went on picking. "Grandfather," said she, 
"won't you tell me what tiine it is.?" The Hubbardstons 
were softly fitted into place. "You see, grandfather," 
said Milly, "if I don't get to the corners for the four 
o'clock car, Henry'll miss me. He won't know what to 
do. Grandfather, won't you tell me what time it is.?" 

The gnarled hand ceased its work among the branches. 
The obstinate back seemed to be listening. I'hen Andrew- 
came down slowly, as if each step were an interval in some 
grim decision. He pulled out his watch and displayed it. 
He did not look at it himself. Grandmother, following 
his averted gaze, concluded he was doing something 
unsuited to a sinless life. Milly gave a little cry. 



BAZAAR DAILY 



"Only three o'clock?" said she. "I've got an hour. 
I'll go back and fold the clo'es. That's nice clean work. 
It won't hurt my dress." 

She took a little run away from them, and then fell into 
a walk, singing as she went. Perhaps she wanted to 
hurry out of sight before grandfather could call her back. 
He stood staring after her, an odd look on his face, half 
triumph, half terror. But his wife was looking at him. 
He had forgotten his watch, and she stepped quickly to 
his side and peered at it over his arm. 

"Andrew," said she, "that watch ain't goin'." 

He turned to her with a start, and stooped, in a frown- 
ing haste, to lift his basket again. But grandmother, 
too, stooped. She took the basket from him and set it 
down an arm's length away. 

"Andrew," said she, "you needn't think I don't see 
through you. I ain't lived with you forty-two year for 
nothin '. Milly asked you what time 'twas an' you turned 
your watch round to her, because you wa'n't willin' to 
tell a lie; but you were more'n willin' she should think it 
was an hour earlier than 'tis, if 'twould make her late for 
meetin' Henry." 

Andrew said nothing. He still regarded the land- 
scape. He was thinking his wife had never spoken so to 
him in her life. She was thinking that, too. 

"Andrew Doane," said she, "when I try to realize 
anybody's doin' a thing like that, it seems as if they'd 
better lie right out an' done with it. An' when it comes 
to not committin' a sin for thirteen year — well, I'll say 
no more. But I'll tell you what I'm goin' to do. I'm 
goin' to harness up an' carry Milly over to the corners. 
An' you needn't forbid it, for I'm goin' jest the same." 

Andrew looked at her. She seemed taller than usual 
and the afternoon sun lay on her cheeks and lighted them 
finely. He dared not think what he read in her eyes. 
She was turning awa^' from him. Suddenly Andrew knew 
he must not let her go in wrath, not even if his house of 
pride should fall about his ears. 

"Here," he called. His voice sounded weak and 
quavering. "You hold on. I'll harness up." 

Alice Brovi^n. 



Patronage and Plain-speaking. 

The Alanchester Guardian, tenderly concerned for the 
sensitiveness of the United States, has protested against 
the plain-speaking of Lloyd George to the neutral nations, 
against his stern reminder that pacific intervention at 
this stage of the war would be playing into Germany's 
hands. The Guardian considers that such talk alienates 
from Great Britain the friendship of the American people, 
and so casts away an asset of considerable importance. 
"The indirect value of sympathy" is, in its editor's 
opinion, too precious to be tested by temerity, or strained 
by candor. 

The Guardian is mistaken. Americans do not resent 
plain speech. They use it, and they understand it. 
They have no great store of irritable vanity, needing to 
be soothed by complaisance. Neither are they so su- 
premely stupid as to mistake the gist of Lloyd George's 
remarks, to suppose that he advocates an impossible 
war of annihilation. They conclude quite simply that he 
meant what he said, and what he said was that, as Britain 
had asked no intervention when she was unprepared to 
fight, she would tolerate none now. It is precisely what 
the Federal Administration would have said, if Britain 
had been disposed to play the part of peace-maker in the 
third year of the Civil War. 

Hard words break no bones. We Americans have been 
too deeply bruised in the past two years to wince at a 



phrase or two, at a warning, well-meant and sincerely 
spoken. We whose cargoes have been dynamited, or 
sunk on our coasts "to see how we would take it." We 
who have been misused by secret and shameless con- 
spiracies. We to whom the names, "Von Papen," "Von 
Igel," "Boy-Ed," are humiliatingly familiar. We whose 
dead lie under the sea, ignored or forgotten. It is not for 
us to sulk at plain speech, and at a truth not wholly 
palatable. 

Americans remember well that it was the Manchester 
Guardian which four years ago rebuked Lord Roberts 
more severely than it now rebukes Lloyd George, because 
that wise and sad old soldier misdoubted the good-will of 
Berlin, because he warned his country of the peril which 
encompassed her. The Guardian was then as concerned 
for the feelings of Germany as it is now concerned for 
the feelings of the United States. The Teutons, it 
assured its readers, would never break their word. Lord 
Roberts had shamefully misjudged them. Prussia was 
in fact a sort of enlarged Lancashire, "blunt, straightfor- 
ward, and sentimental." 

All of which makes us feel that our kind advocate is 
perhaps less moved by tenderness for us than by enmity 
toward the British Secretary of State for War. 

Agnes Repplier. 



A maiden of courage most rare, 
By an Indian was given a scare; 
But with perfect repose 
She just stripped ofl her clothes, 
For she knew he would fear a white bare. 

A maiden of Kalamazoo 

Thought she'd try for a place on the crew; 
But her pious old aunty 
Thought the costume too scanty, 

And declared that it never would do. 



A gentleman went to the studio of a Boston artist to 
see a newly completed portrait of his brother. He 
did not approve of the picture, but he did not wish to 
offend the artist by saying so. Casting about for some 
phrase at once honest and not uncomplimentary, he at 
last brought out: "I'm so glad you gave his head a dull 
finish." The subject of the portrait objected that the 
phrase was, after all, a little ambiguous. 



They were lamenting the rush and push of modern 
days. "Yes," observed J., "everybody nowadays is 
so anxious to lay eggs as to have no time to hatch any 
of them." 



"Oh, Miss McGillicuddy is the most refined person I 
ever knew. Why, when she uses the telephone, she 
takes a cachou to perfume her breath, and never calls 
anything stronger than 'Hades-ol'" 



A Boston lady who had been visiting in New York 
returned home, and about eleven in the evening stood 
looking out of the window of her apartment high above 
Commonwealth Avenue. "Yes," she said, gazing out 
upon the deserted street, "it is very homelike, but after 
New York it is so quiet that it seems like Lovers' Lane!" 



X. "Somebody says there's a lot of difference between 
learning and earning." 

Y. "There is; a '1 of a difference." 



First Literary Man: "It's got so now that to live at 
all a man must either write a best seller, or — " 
Second ditto: "Sell a best writer." 



BAZAAR DAILY 



BAZAAR DAILY 

Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 

Editor, ARLO BATES 

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 

William Dean Howells 
Alice Bhown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 

Margaret Dela^jd Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 

The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the AlHed 
Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, inchiding postage, $1.50, may be 
sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
taken at the Booth. 

COPYRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES, pOSTON, MASS. 

special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 

At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band each day 
from 4 to 6 p.m. 

In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
new and wonderful war pictures. 

Saturday evening in the Cafe, the Hawaiian Band. 



On Saturday evening, the opening and Gala Night of 
the Bazaar, the Cecilia Chorus, under the leadership of 
Mr. Chalmers Clifton, will sing in Exhibition Hall at 
9.30. The First Corps Band and the Bostonia Orchestra 
.will play. 

The Daily presents to its readers a warm greeting, 
and all genial wishes for the coming holidays. It is firm 
in the conviction that in these painful times nothing 
could do more to make the overcast season bright than 
generous work for the relief of the suffering; and so is 
sure that those who are helping the Bazaar are doing 
their best to deserve a heart-warm Christmas and a hope- 
ful New Year. 



The Daily wishes to express its gratitude to the many 
who have heartily and helpfully co-operated for its suc- 
cess. The ready response of writers and the sympathetic 
help of others have made the enterprise possible and the 
work of the editors most pleasant. Especial thanks are 
due to Baron Charles Huard for his delightfully con- 
ceived and most skilfully executed cartoons; to F. Ver- 
heyden for his strong and touching cartoon-decoration; to 
the ladies who have undertaken the sale of papers at the 
booth, and the alert and manly Boy Scouts who have 
agreed to act as newsboys. For help in the actual mak- 
ing of the paper thanks are due to Messrs. Carter, Rice & 
Co. for their generous gift of the paper on which the 
Daily is printed; to Geo. H. Ellis Co. for the paper on 
which "The Boston Mother Goose" will be reprinted and 
the press-work in making it; and in especial to Mr. A. W. 
Finlay for patient and effective assistance. The Daily 
does not cover the ground in this enumeration, for in 
making arrangements, getting subscriptions, the tedious, 
work of addressing and stamping wrappers, and in many 
little ways, a great many persons have contributed to the 
work, and made it possible for the paper to come into the 
Bazaar, as it is proud to announce that it does, with sub- 
scriptions enough to defray all expenses. 



It is the intention that in the numbers of the Daily 
nothing shall appear, except as a quotation, which has been 
published before; and to secure this end the management 
has spared no pains. In the matter of jokes, epigrams, 
and anecdotes, no editor can claim to be infallible; these 
things are new only at the moment they are made — and 
by no means always then. A matter written secretly in 
a notebook to-day, and locked away in a safety-deposit 
vault, somehow manages to be proclaimed from the 
housetop to-morrow; and through the pores of the en- 
velopes into which the Editor has sorted his contributions, 
undoubtedly much that came there fresh has sifted out 
into the air. The management can only plead that the 
honest work of some months has gone to the endeavor to 
procure original material, that contributors have been 
exceedingly kind and responsive, and that not even a 
casual line of "filling" has been allowed if it was sus- 
pected of having earlier made its bow to the world. 
Beyond that we can only ask indulgence if the reader 
meets with old friends; it is hoped that old jokes will at 
least have their faces newly washed, and perhaps be 
arrayed in unaccustomed raiment. Those who know the 
difficulties of deciding upon the originality of contribu- 
tions will give the indulgence unasked; others can 
hardly under the circumstances be so unkind as to with- 
hold it. 



The reason for opening the Bazaar on Saturday mani- 
festly is that folk may have something to talk with their 
friends about after church on Sunday. 



George Babbitt accompanies his subscription with a 
query: "Why not the Bizarre Daily?" Would that we 
had his wit to make it so! 



Many a man has regarded himself as a star in litera- 
ture when he was not even an asterisk. 



To the list of contributors published in the prospectus 
should be added, among others, Mildred Aldrich, Dr. 
Allen Greenwood, Alice Greenwood Howe, Helen Choat 
Prince, Laura Richards, and Clara Bowdoin Winthrop. 



The Editor's Callers. 

"Well," Jack observed, standing big and tall, and 
looking down upon the Editor, who sat at his desk cor- 
recting proof for the first number of the Daily, "how 
does it feel to be back in the Editorial Chair?" 

"Very much as it does to be in any other where you 
have to be like the White Queen, rushing ahead with all 
your might to keep in the same place," the Editor 
answered. "Sit down. You are welcome for just five 
minutes." 

"You're in great form," Jack observed. "I suppose 
you're rejoiced to be back on your old job." 

"Why should I be?" the Editor demanded. "I like 
to work, of course. Any wholesome fellow does, and 
I'm bred to it; but I always thought the editorial job a 
detestable one. At any rate, I detest it." 

"Oh, you do? Then I suppose you are in this thing 
with noble self-denial because you think it's going to 
bring in a mass of samoleons." 

The Editor regarded him compassionately. 

"You must think me a fool," he responded, "if you 
suppose that after all that I've had to do with literary 
matters, I expect wealth from any paper at a fair. We 
hope, of course, to get something out of it; but certainly 
nothing startling." 

"Then what's it for? A lot of people have taken a lot 
of trouble about it. I suppose these literary big guns 
that have written for it might sell their stuff if they tried." 

"Undoubtedly they could sell what you so elegantly call 
their 'stuff'; and it is true that they have taken a lot of 
trouble, and taken it most cheerfully." 



BAZAAR DAILY 



■ •.id<;e," Jack remarked, stretching out his long 

, ju have some sort of an idea that you want 

■ lii-.g .1. me. Fire ahead. I'm game. I'll stand it." 

Well, then," the Editor explained, answering the 

' .■ :-■ only by a smile, "it was hoped by those who 

: the Daily that it might do the Bazaar good 

!ii^i:eci.iy." 

"As iiow?" 

■'3y being one more feature good enough to be a 

credit, for one thing. It may be talked about a little; it 

■ :'! be sent about more or less; perhaps add a little flavor 

.; .istinction. It is also a good medium for daily notes." 

jack did not look so convinced as to be aroused to 
1 athusiasm. 

"Even if all that is true," he remarked, "it hardly 
seems to me to be worth so much trouble." 

"That is as it may be," the Editor said, smiling. He 
looked down at his proof half a minute. Then he added: 
"The real reason is, of course, something quite different. 
These, to my mind, are the side-products." 

"Oh, there's a bigger cat in the meal, is there?" was 
Jack's rejoinder. "I have more faith in side-products 
nowadays than in some chief results. But it wouldn't 
be you, if there weren't wheels within wheels." 

"That is better than wheels in the head," the Editor 
remarked ambiguously. Then he became serious. "See 
here," he said, "do you recognize that we have a pretty 
distinguished list of names as contributors to this paper.""' 

"Oh, fair," Jack assented patronizingly. "It's a pity 
they couldn't have been led off by a more distinguished 
Editor." 

"Certainly," the Editor agreed calmly, evidently now 
too much in earnest to chaff. " But the point is that to 
the paper have contributed a fairly representative body 
of American authors — pretty well the cream. " 

"Well, you're lucky, of course; but what are you driv- 
ing at.'" 

"This: in the first place, it is worth while to give them 
a chance. One man writes to me, for instance, in reply 
to my note asking his help, like this." He poked among 
the accumulated letters in a pigeonhole, and then read: 
"'When a man has a wife and child to support, and can't 
either go fight for the Allies or give money, it is a godsend 
to know that he may do something!'" The Editor laid 
the letter down, and emphasized what he had read by a 
little pause. Then he added; "The letters I have had 
all show much the same feeling." 

Jack regarded the Editor closely. 

"So that is what the paper is for, is it," he said, "to 
give authors a chance to feel that they are helping.'' It 
isn't a bad notion; but I'm not sure yet that it is 
enough of a result to pay for the trouble." 

"Well, then," the other returned, with an air in which 
was a faint suggestion of aggressiveness, "we'll come 
down to hard-pan. I have to speak only of my own feeling, 
for I can't tell how the others who are responsible feel 
about it. I am sure they would agree if they thought 
the thing out. This paper is run fundamentally for the 
purpose of putting on record the fact that our writers — 
and there isn't a harder-worked or a more underpaid class 
in the community, so their taking the trouble means some- 
thing — were eager to help; that they were willing to give 
time and thought and labor. I am jealous of the honor 
of my craft, and the thing which for me counts most in 
this business is the fact that it proves how the literary 
class in America stand and feel. The writers are not 
always the most profound or the most influential people 
in a practical country; but they are all persons who 
think, and in the long run they influence the thought of 
society. If they hold by the side that is fighting for 
freedom, that fact cannot but have its effect." 



Jack's face had taken on a graver expression as the talk 
proceeded. Now he nodded his head. 

"I suppose you are right," he assented. "It is worth 
while to have it on record that you quill-drivers are on the - 
side of the angels. At any rate," he added, changing 
quickly to his original mood, "I must give you credit for 
being one of that infernal tribe that devastates the earth, 
the people who mean well." 

But the Editor was too much in earnest not to finish. 

"I believe pretty firmly," he concluded, "in moral 
issues, and the ultimate effect upon public opinion that 
thinking will have in shaping them. It is good for 
writers to be on record in a noble enterprise; and it is 
better still for the public that they should be." 

Jack nodded again. 

"Yes," he repeated, "at least you mean well." 

The Editor burst into a laugh, and waved his hand in 
dismissal. 

"That is more than can be said for you," he retorted. 
"You mean only to waste busy people's time. Get out." 



The Imagist. 

[The Editor confesses his own inabihty to distinguish genuine Imagist 
"poetry" from the imitation. Of course neither is to be taken seriously, 
but lie is assured that the following is not even meant to be.] 

Chill in the air. 

Dimness. 

Mist. 

Gray sidewalks — 

Dawn! 

Solitary in the early morning, 

A pallid poet in evening raiment, 

With wine-colored spots on his wrinkled shirt-front, 

Crumpled, bareheaded, crestfallen, 

Wet 

As a sick raven after storm. 

Twines around a green lamp-post 

Unsteadily, 

Sprawling — 

Like an old grape-vine without leaves. 

He has spent a gaudy night. 

His brain reels 

With the passion and the pain 

Of beauty — 

Too much beauty. 

He is gazing at a butterfly 

On the pave. 

Frost-stunned : — 

His patent-leather pumps have almost crushed it. 

He is saying: 

"I see you, pretty butterfly. 

Your wings are a welter of gold and blood. 

You have two wings, 

One on each side, 

Butterfly. 

The wind lifts you; 

You are ruffled; 

You flutter like my heart, 

Bright thing." 

Stuart P. Sherman. 



"Do you believe it is true that before the Flood men 
lived for seven or eight hundred years, and came down 
to three score and ten afterward.'" 

"If it is true, it is a striking example of the bad effects 
of too much water." 



BAZAAR DAILY 



The Servants with the Happy Faces. 

Our aunt's winter house looked through broad windows 
down a garden, with pine-trees, that steeply overhung 
the Mediterranean. Sea water, veiled with light haze, 
lay every afternoon glimmering at the bottom of a vista 
framed in pine-needles, tall curving trunks, and a hillside 
lawn bright with flowers and tropic shrubs. The house 
was a modest, comfortable villa. It sheltered the lives 
of two very charming ladies and their servants. A 
stranger, trying to describe the place, once called it "that 
house where the servants have such happy faces"; and 
they had reason to be happy in those days before the 
war. 

It was on a stormy Sunday that Maurice came home on 
short leave from his garrison at Nice, to visit his old 
fellow-servants. They were in a suppressed hubbub of 
joy at the news of his arrival; and Joseph the butler, 
arranging flowers carefully on a table (Joseph loved 
flowers), wore a smile of friendly satire when he explained 
the commotion, saying, "It is M. le sergent Maurice who 
has come." They had all wept when he left them to 
enter the army as a conscript. Later that evening he 
came in to pay his respect to Mesdames. A gale was 
blowing, not the mistral, but a wild southwester off the 
sea, that lashed our windows with rain, and moaned "like 
the voices of dead galley-slaves." Parting the curtains, 
one could see through wet panes a blurred light moving 
in the blackness, — the light of a ship in distress, close 
ashore, and laboring to avoid the rocky point of the Cape. 
We forgot her peril when Maurice entered. He was a 
slight, alert, blond youth in the blue coat and red trousers 
and numbered collar of his regiment; a badly cut uniform, 
overlarge for him, he wore with an air which made it 
appear to fit. He stood erect, honestly proud of his 
service, delighted to see the ladies again; and with the 
glow of lamps and a boulet fire lighting his clean young 
face, he talked about military life. "Yes, there were 
hardships. For example, the regiment found not enough 
beds in the barracks at Nice. Things were ill prepared, 
but . . ." While the gale whistled and spattered behind 
the tall curtains, Maurice entertained the ladies as only 
a Frenchman can do, speaking with a ready and musical 
fluency that made his narrative sound like Alexandrine 
verse. He was a splendid, simple figure of youth. His 
oflFhand courtesy, the quick intelligence in his eyes, re- 
minded one of the poet's lad, whose 

"... glancing look, if once he smile, 
Right honest women may beguile." 

But Maurice had no thought of beguilement. He was 
•disGussing the army, and what he should do when his 
term of conscription expired. His ambition was to take 
service with an English gentleman, learn the foreign 
tongue, and become at last the conductor of a Pullman 
car. 

He was promoted for gallantry at the Marne; and, 
having had his part in that miracle, soon afterward fell 
in another victory, running forward with his men at the 
charge. 

One of his admirers was poor Marcel, a youngster whom 
we privately called The Pike, because the pike is a fish 
said to have no brains. Adarcel had none too many. 
He was thin and feebly built; his hatchet face, tinged 
with a pink flush about the cheek-bones, wore a silly 
smile of good nature; his eyes were sore, flighty, and 
vague. Born to misunderstand, to blunder, to forget, 
he lived in an atmosphere of rebuke, and suffered no 
more than a duck in the rain. "Wait till you get into the 
army!" his fellows cried, when outraged by some of his 
many faults. "You'll learn what time of day it is then!" 
Marcel only laughed, blinked, went his erratic way, and 



learned nothing at all. In the early morn 
perched on the kitchen stairs to black the h u.?. - 
boots, he sang very funny songs in a plaintive, i ,b ; 
voice like a thrush singing in a dark cage. Waii . . 
table, he dumbly revelled in the conversation whi^ ■- 
could not understand, and often forgot his duty 
plates. Many a stern look he got from Joseph th 
many a winged word afterward behind the scenes; bi 
Marcel never improved; not for him was the time of day, 
he could not change his nature which made him float 
through life obscurely and cheerfully. To act as valet 
for an American was pure delight, especially when the 
American spoke unearthly French and wore for bath- 
slippers a pair of Huron moccasins, which recalled all 
that there is of romance in Fenimore Cooper and Gustave 
Aimard. He burned my best clothes with a hot iron, 
and smiled over them like a thin, pink, sore-eyed angel. 
The last time I saw Marcel off duty was in Paris, Rue 
Marbeuf. He pointed westerly, and cried, " Je cherche 
ma tanie!^' with such exaltation as though an aunt were 
the Golden Fleece. We had a torrent of words; and when 
we parted Marcel flew off easterly at a zig-zag, seeking 
his weather-vane of an aunt with unabated joy. 

Poor Marcel: he died without renown, somewhere in 
the trenches. A bullet caught him, and the honest 
featherhead gave up his life for us, for what we believe 
in. Wherever his soul went — that animula vagula, that 
^ animulissima — there will be singing; and the songs will 
make you smile. 

Then there was Ragot the chauffeur, a great cherub with 
black moustache and flaming cheeks, who believed that 
milk was poisonous, who drove his car up and down the 
Maritime Alps like a devil unchained; but whose pleasure 
it was to read, ponder, and discuss Latin inscriptions at 
Our Lady of Laghet and elsewhere. Ragot's old chariot 
has been smashed or worn out by the enemy these two 
years, and he himself a prisoner — too capable to be set 
free — in the unloved country. There was Edouard the 
gardener also, a swarthy little hillman from Roquebrune 
way, who left the kindest of wives and le petit Jean his 
son, to go get shot through the leg and captured. There 
was Emile, a pale, intelligent, suspicious, warm-hearted 
major-domo, who went to the front an atheist, and at 
the front became something quite different. The women- 
folk of these men made up the remainder of the house- 
hold. 

They are all scattered and changed, like everything 
else in our day. These humble and unheroic people 
were forced to do their duty. The villa missed them; 
and elsewhere, "what private griefs they had, alas, we 
know not." The garden has since contained the wounded 
and the blind, French, English, patient black Senegalese, 
and Serbian officers, the saddest and most courteous of 
gentlemen, waiting confidently for a better time. Why 
should we mention petty figures, ciphers in a great ac- 
count.'' There is no reason why, except that they belong 
to our own world, which has suffered all but the over- 
throw of right and reason, and which has met that shock 
with an unbroken wall of humble sacrifice. 

It is strange, now, to remember the enemy as he lived 
and moved in a quiet neighborhood. We saw him 
walking large and talking proudly along the road outside. 
Every one, during the spring of 1914, acknowledged that 
in a material sense he was about to inherit the earth. 
Stout men and uncouth picnicking women came, and 
stared, and gawked over gates, and with mouths full 
sputtered "Schonl" into gardens. They were commonly 
said in those days to be spying out the country, choosing 
their future landmarks, mingling with us under orders to 
become "men of the world" and to fit themselves for that 
station in life to which it might please an Emperor to 



BAZAAR DAILY 



1). They were like Boswell's German baron, who, 

■if certain foreigners, used to jump methodically 

' ■•: every day, crying, " SA, apprens fetre vifl" 

: nave passed, and still we wonder at their exer- 

i hard to learn from books or by command the 

our human nature. 

Henry Milner Rideout. 



Mercy Buntin'. 

[From an unpublished volume, by the courtesy of Messrs. Houghton 
'\ iflin Company.) 

Mercy Buntin' ain't exactly what you call flighty, 
But she certainly does say onexpected things at times. 
She was mighty 
Low in her mind 

When her husband Hezekiah died. 
And says she, standin' by his coffin-side, 
"I snum, it don't seem to me 
As if I should ever git married ag'in!" 

Another time her sister died 
And I said to her: "Mercy, I'm afraid 
You'll be 
Sorter lonesome now, all by yourself in that house." 
"Y-e-e-s," says she, 
"But there'll be more closet-room." 
It was house-cleanin' time, though, 

And I ruther guess 
Women-folks is sorter demented 
At them times. 

Madelaine Yale Wynne. 



Fifty Doggerel Charades. 

(The answers will be given togetiier in the last issue of this paper.) 

I. 
Aweary traveller sought my first, 

For badly he had hurt my second; 
From far amid the deepening gloom 

A cheering third seductive beckoned. 

. But as he went a sage cried: "Hold! 

Oh, fourth that snare which would decoy you. 
It is death's wild will-o'-the-wisp; 

Beyond my whole it will destroy you." 

II. 

My first is the same as my second; 

But my second is not my first; 
For five of my first must be reckoned 

Whenever my second's rehearsed. 
So my second my first, upon my soul, 
In worth doth mightily my whole. 

III. 
Within my first my third men seal; 
My second's naught, yet woe or weal 
Oft in it speak. Under my whole 
Comes comfort to the dying soul. 

IV. 
Far from its vine, and from my second poured. 
My first tempts palates at the social board. 
My whole no less is at the banquet placed. 
To tempt the eye and satisfy the taste. 

• V. 
The Devil said to Mother Eve: * 

"Dear first, my second do." 
And she obeyed. Oh, woeful whole 

Was that for me and you I 



The Traveller. 

Oh, where do I go when I am asleep. 
When such marvellous things I see.' 

And why will my memory not keep 
The adventures that happen to me.' 

Such wonderful fragments and bits I recall 
Such glimpses of beautiful things; 

Of castles and towers mighty and tall, 
And palaces matchless of kings. 



I visit the wonderful lands that hang 

Where the world is upside down; 
The isles where the sirens so wickedly sang, 

And many an old, old town. 

And forests with lions and tiger-cubs, 

And monkeys uncaged in each tree; 
And black men out hunting with arrows and clubs; — 

But they all are afraid of me! 

For neither the land nor the ocean wide 

Can hinder my way at night; 
When I on a flying-horse can ride. 

As swift iS the wind in flight. 

And I have iought dragons, no knight so bold. 

In lands that are far, far away; 
And have captured galleons laden with gold, 

Darting out from a palm-fringed bay. 

I have searched weird places in and out, 

By the sure, hid way of dreams; 
I have journeyed the whole round world about. 

With its forests, and mountains, and streams. 

If I could remember, and if I could tell, 

How people would listen and stare! 
For never has traveller travelled so well, 

As they all would be forced to declare. 

Enoch Crane. 



The Letter Bag. 

[No letters can adequately represent the suferuigs of unhappy Poland f 
and we are not even able to give any connmxinications which are recent. For 
a year the German blockade has been so complete that no letters have come 
out or gone in. Through the kindness of Mme. Szumowska Adamowski, 
President of the Society which has done noble work, the Friends of Poland, 
we are able to give a few extracts. Mr. Adam Siedlecki, an author well 
known in Poland, wrote in November, igiS, as follows:] 

[As to the situation in Warsaw,] imagine a space filled with thousands 
of miserable basements; place in them people for whom no human 
aid can find occupation, — peoj.ue deprived of all comforts for many 
months; put among them old men and feeble children; count 300,000 
of such unfortunates, and you will have a faithful picture of Warsaw. 
In the city, human shapes looking like skeletons leaning against the 
walls of the houses, who have not even the strength to whisper the 
word "help"; limitless despair reflected in their eyes. On the side- 
walks you may see chains of beggars kneeling in the water accumulated 
by the recent autumn rains, with their eyes glued to the ground. They 
have not yet overcome the shame of being forced to beg. In the miser- 
able holes of suburban lodgings are whole families who for weeks have 
not tasted a spoonful of warm food, and over this human stratum 
another still more pitiable — the intelligent part of the population de- 
prived of work; the impossibility of getting out of their mouths a 
request for help, hiding between the walls of a bare room the misery of 
hunger and of November cold. Indescribable is the mental anguish 
of seeing their children without food, wasting under their eyes and 
becoming an easy prey to the reigning epidemics. . . . The work of relief 
under great-hearted Prince Lubomirski, assisted by hundreds of 
men of noble mind, and collections of hundreds of roubles, has done 
much. The towns have become a network of free kitchens. All sorts 
of philanthropic committees are working eagerly, but all these cannot 
give assurance that there will be fuel and food for the unfortunates. 
. . . One thing only will ever be forthcoming: the ardor and self-forget- 
fulness of those who work until exhaustion to save if but a portion of 
these miserable sufferers from death and starvation. . . . 

[That matters have grown constantly worse in Poland, is known in spite 
of all censorship and blockades. It is to be doubted if the world has ever 
seen more appalling and atrocious suffering than now ravages unhappy 
and guiltless Poland.] 

[From a private letter from Warsaw, May, 1915.] I will tell you a 
part of the unusual self-sacrifice of a young girl, twenty years old, of a 
wealthy family, Miss Fuchs. She had been taking care of homeless 
refugees, caught typhus, and died soon after. Before her death, while 
she was still conscious, she begged her parents to give the money which 
would have been her dower to the houseless ones, and not to let it be 
known how she caught the fever, as it might discourage others from 
helping the unfortunate. It was kept secret, and I know it only ac- 
cidentally. There have been many victims of the disease among the 
well-to-do, delicately nurtured women, who were not used to hard work. 
They perish, but they all die without a murmur, in the quiet conscious- 
ness of having performed their duty. . . . All together you may be 
proud of your compatriots. In spite of the present depression and 
mental suffering, there is great strength and persistence in work of 
relief. 



BAZAAR DAILY 



THE, B05T0N MOTHLR G005L. 



THE LANDMARKS. 

The Boston landmarks, men agree. 
Are sights all travellers should see; 
And so to see them, every year. 
The travellers come from far and near. 



The 5tate House makes a glorious show. 
Where fiery bulbs shine row on row. 

As they would never stop; 
But sometimes one might like to know 
Whether the statesmen down below 

Are also light a-top. 



Oh, help! Alas! Alackaday! 

What steps are there we can take? 
A tower's stepped on the Custom House, 

And squashed it flat as a pancake! 



The State House long has single been 

For all its grace and charm; 
The State House now is Mormon seen. 

With a wife on either arm. 



A hip and a hop and a hippetty-clidge. 
And that is the shabby old Harvard Bridge. 



Roly-poly the Boston Stone! 
Once in Boston well was it known. 
Over the ocean it rolled its way. 
Served as a landmark for many a day; 
Now it is built in a down-town wall. 
Who among you has seen it at all? 



Ten tribes were lost; 

Some hoped to find them one day. 
The Lsplanade was built; 

And there they were on Sunday. 



To market! To market! We'll go down to Faneuil. 
Home again! Home again! Back through the tun- 
nel. 



The lion and the unicorn 

On the Old State House stood, 
Till certain silly people 

Debated if they should. 

The lion and the unicorn 

Together went away; 
The lion and the unicorn 

Came back another day. 



They once used Boston Common 
To hang the witches there; 

But witches got so plenty 
That they dropped it in despair. 



The people in the Old Folks' \]o^r<<\ 

The Athenaeum named. 
They never wish abroad to roam. 

They are completely tamed. 
And if they chance restless to get, 

And life seems rather slow, 
They watch, to take away all fret. 

The graveyard down below. 



The Somerset 's a noble club; of that there is ni 
doubt. 

The Common in the windows looks, the uncom- 
mon look out. 



To Boston Common, row on row. 

Anciently honorable, the troopers go; 

And when they are assembled there, 

They fire the Governor into a chair. 

But common folk hold the Common dear 

Because they flock together here, 

Whenever holidays come round. 

To strew old papers on the ground. 

So the next morning it is seen 

To be both "Common and unclean." 



Answers to Correspondents. 

Scholar. We have never seen the phrase "to take up 
arms against a See of troubles" explained as referring to 
the fight against the Pope; but in view of the bitterness 
of the feeling against the Catholics in Shakespeare's time, 
we are inclined to agree with you that this is the true 
meaning. 

Simon. "Tabu" is a word of Polynesian origin. Its 
meaning is: Made in Germany. 

Concord. The passage in which Emerson protests 
against the modern spelling of programme is in "Brahma " : 

"They reckon ill who leave 'me' out." 

Zantippette. You ask if you should accept the posi- 
tion of chief marshal in a parade of woman suffragists 
when you cannot tell the right hand from the left. We 
should regard you as specially designed by Providence for 
that office. 

Violet. We can assure you that it is not considered 
good form to eat catsup on pie for breakfast. As the 
name indicates, catsup is served only for supper, and then 
generally on ice-cream. 

Simplex. No, having written fables does not make La 
Fontaine a fabulous person, any more than not having 
written them makes Bernard Shaw real. 

Harvard. The patron saint of football players is St. 
Lawrence, who achieved fame on a gridiron. 

Dorcas. The rule for knitted sponges generally fol- 
lowed is to cast on as many stitches as one pleases, knit 
as long as one pleases, drop any number of stitches one 
pleases, and bind off. 

Priscilla. The names of the debutantes who poured 
at the Boston Tea Party have not been preserved, so we 
are unable to give you a description of their dresses. 



The pleasure of Saturday night, 

When we've tried all the week to be good, 
Is that then we our morals may slight, 

And not do a thing that we should. 



Roman pearls are good enough for swine. 



)ci,B;niis>o 



BAZAAR DAILY 



10 Cents 



MONDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1916 



No. 2 



y 




Angling on the River Meuse. 
'Hope to heaven you don't have to fire. It might scare the fish." 



10 



BAZAAR DAILY 



A Wish at Sea. 

May death come as eve comes to meet 

The level sea; 
With wide, cool quietude, and sweet 

Tranquillity. 
One lucent star from out the dusky west, 

Far on the lee. 
Gives dear assurance darkness will be blest, 

From terrors free; 
Far, dim horizons mark where voyages cease, 

And we would be. 
Then hope at last shall merge with peace 

Eternally. 



Rest and Refreshment. 

I had tarried late in town on account of important 
private business, postponing the move to the country 
until I should be able to go with a clear conscience, my 
work finished. The weather had been very hot in the 
past week in June, and the bricks under my busy feet 
reminded me of those that in my youth were tucked into 
sleighs, perfectly heated in the kitchen oven, and wrapped 
in bits of carpet. 

Some kind friends had a cottage at the seashore, not 
more than an hour distant by rail; and when they wrote 
begging me to come for a day and a night, "just for rest 
and refreshment," as they neatly put it, I was grateful for 
the thought of me, and gladly took the train in the after- 
noon of a scorching day. I was very tired, and over- 
hurried, not allowing myself my usual afternoon siesta 
and cooling bath. I packed some things into my leather 
case with a disorderly mind, doubting as to its contents, 
as the evening at the shore might be very cold by contrast. 

The train was stuffy, and full of the heat and dust which 
had entered with the sun in the morning and huddled 
there all day; but as one left the city and confronted the 
marshes with the soft tide-ways creeping through them, 
the atmosphere revived, and my wilting spirit with it. 
When I arrived at the station at M., and found my friend 
waiting for me in her victoria, I became quite content 
with all conditions. 

"Oh, you poor dear!" she exclaimed. "I fancy town 
must have been awful. James came down in an early 
train, saying that he simply couldn't bear the heat a 
moment longer." 

"Yes, it was bad enough," I said; "but now I will 
forget it." 

We rolled smoothly over the well-kept road, after 
waiting for the departure of many motor-cars, all seem- 
ingly bent upon getting their owners home first. Our 
carriage turned into a wood-road, shady and quiet. 

"I thought you wouldn't mind taking a long way 
round," said my friend. "One of the horses is rather 
queer about autos, and I like to get away into the roads 
forbidden to them. It is a good deal farther, but it is so 
safe." 

I was longing to get to the sea, and the wood-road 
was shut in rather closely with no view; but, as she said, 
it was safe, and that was a consideration. On reaching the 
main road again, we had one or two hairbreadth escapes 
from being run down by autos, which rushed at us from 
behind, just shaving our wheels. This caused our horses 
to prance a good deal on the grass at the roadside, and to 
behave in a most uneven manner. We made several 
masterly flank movements, however, and now and again 
would plunge into lanes which were ticketed in large 
letters "Not an automobile road," with no explanation 
what sort of a road it might be. My friend's conversa- 
tion was fragmentary, as she kept one eye to windward 
and the other to leeward, and interspersed her remarks 
to me by suggestions to the coachman. At last we 



entered the home avenue, victorious, if a bit shaken, and 
as she stepped on the piazza she said with a sigh of 
content: "I really drive so little this summer, those autos 
are so annoying." 

The place was delightful, and from one of the windows 
of the room assigned to me I looked on a dancing summer 
sea, with a wooded island here and there breaking the blue 
expanse; and on the other side a garden brilliant with all . 
the colors of all the flowers. The air was perfumed, and 
I gratefully recognized the fragrance of box, and mignon- 
ette, and heliotrope, the incense of their day of service. 

After dinner we sat on the wide veranda, overlooking 
the terrace to the sea, and it seemed too good to be true. 

"You won't mind my smoking rather near you.""' asked 
James. "There is no breeze to-night; and sometimes the 
mosquitoes come out of the grass." 

I didn't mind at all, for they did seem to be coming out 
of the grass, or somewhere, and I was feebly flicking my 
handkerchief about my person. That was a small misery, 
however, in the face of a young moon, not grown to undue 
fulness of figure, but just artistically well-made. The 
summer waves lazily kissed the foot of the high cliff, 
and enfolded the islands silently, as the waters of the 
lagoons hold Venice in their embrace. As the evening 
grew late, and we separated for the night, I remarked upon 
the perfect repose of the picture, adding that sleep in 
such surroundings would be as a benediction to my city- 
worn nerves. 

James looked out to the far horizon, saying, with a touch 
of anxiety in his voice: "I hope it won't be too calm. 
There is a misty bank out there which may mean fog." 

"Oh, I don't mind sea-fog," I replied. "It's so fresh, 
and full of salt." 

Aly hostess came to see that nothing was wanting in my 
pleasant room, telling me that her chamber was separated 
from mine only by a communicating closet, if I might like 
to speak to her. 

"My dear, I shall speak to no one. I shall be bliss- 
fully asleep in no time at all." 

I got into bed, leaving the windows open, that the sweet 
air could enter at will. The friendly lighthouses winked 
at me from the island in the bay, and I lapsed into slum- 
ber with a delicious consciousness of doing so which adds 
the true Epicurean touch to the luxury of it. 

It seemed but a blessed moment of time before I was 
waked by a tremendous noise that got me to my feet with 
a vague impression that a large ocean steamer was 
being wrecked on the terrace. I staggered to a window, 
to be there greeted by a repetition of the horrid bellow- 
ing of steam, which struck the air as with an impact of 
personal motive. The moon had vanished, the stars had 
gone away, and a sort of white darkness reigned in their 
stead. The monstrous utterance kept on at regular 
intervals of half a minute; and as I nervously shut both 
the windows to shelter me a little, my friend came into 
the room, candle in hand. 

"I am so sorry! James was afraid it might come." 

"What.? A shipwreck?" I gasped. 

"No, no! It's the new steam fog-signal they have 
put on the island where the lighthouses are. The whole 
shore is in a rage about it, and we can only hope that 
it may be changed before long. Do you think )'ou can 
sleep at all, dear.'' The fog may clear away, if the wind 
turns." 

"I can try," I answered with a ghastly attempt at good- 
nature. "Don't worry about me." 

She went sorrowfully, and I did try. But the thing 
that shook the night was inevitable, unforgettable; 
and after covering my head with the sheet, and being 
asphyxiated, I gave it up, and wondered if the day would 
never come, when I could go back to town. At about 



BAZAAR DAILY 



11 



four o'clock the dreadful thing blew with less force, and 
at last stopped with a groan, as if it had died. 

I got up, opened the windows, saw the blessed dawn, 
heard the birds singing, and then threw myself desper- 
ately into bed again, thinking to catch a nap, and ease 
my aching head. Just as I was catching a nap, what 
was this new torment outside.^ It was as if all the mill- 
wheels in the world were turning their clappers, getting 
nearer and louder as they came. Once more I went to 
the window, weary with emotion, and steeled to meet 
whatever might be there. I saw two small boats, a man 
in each, apparently clapping aimlessly from point to 
point, like maniacs seeking a likely spot in which to drown 
themselves. The men stood up, and evidently had no 
oars. I was really anxious now, and knocked on the 
dividing door. 

"Yes, dear," said my friend in a sleepy voice. 

"I want to tell you that there are two stranger men in 
boats, making a clacking noise with some instrument, 
and I fear they are not all right." 

"Oh, darling, to be sure you wouldn't know, not having 
been at the shore for years," she cried. "They are the 
motor-dories; they won't stay long." And she was silent, 
and, I suppose, asleep again. 

My poor brain was a bit weakened by this time, and 
I wondered if "motor-dories" were any relation to 
matadors, and why they would not stay. After watch- 
ing them for a time, I decided that they were pulling at 
ropes in the water, probably a strange but innocent way 
of fishing. At last I returned to my distracted couch, 
and they clattered away into the morning. 

After a slight doze, followed by a refreshing cup of 
tea, I met my hosts on the piazza. They were distressed 
about my night of disturbance, and begged me to make 
no effort to do more than to wander in the garden and sit 
about in the pleasant shade of the trees, as I was obliged 
to take an afternoon train to town. They also advised 
a nap after luncheon, to which counsel I willingly agreed, 
and went to my room, taking a novel with me; and on 
a comfortable couch was in a pleasing condition of somno- 
lence, when the whole house was shaken to its foundations, 
doors and windows rattled, and a terrible explosion took 
place somewhere very near. I rushed to my door, 
thinking of the gas-machine of which they had been 
speaking as so great a convenience. I called over the 
stairs: "What is it.' Shall I come down.'" 

"No, no," answered my friend from below. "It's 
those stupid big guns they are trying on one of the forts 
in the harbor. They do it rather often this summer." 

I just groaned and went back to my room, broken in 
spirit, with only enough decision left to live until I could 
get home. The concussions went on at intervals, and 
of course no rest was possible with the couch shaking 
beneath my tired form. Luncheon was a perfunctory 
meal on my part, full of forced cheerfulness; and in the 
warm afternoon I was driven to the train, chased along 
the dusty road by the devastating motors. 

When I reached town, they had been drenching the 
streets with water, and as my cab threaded its careful 
way the queer damp smell was grateful to my nostrils. 
The servants had a little dinner ready for me, and a 
cooling breeze blew through the open house. 

As I lay in my bed that night, hearing the footsteps 
on the sidewalks grow fewer and less frequent, there 
was a present sense of shelter and relief. The night 
breeze rustled the leaves of the elms in the park, and the 
sometime honk of the distant auto lulled me to repose. 
The majority of the summer world had gone to the 
seashore for "rest and refreshment." 

Alice G. Howe. 



When Mark Twain Miscued. 



k 



The game of billiards was the solace of Mr. Clemens's 
last years. 

"r am now so old," he once drawled to me, "that I've 
got down to just two alternatives. I must either play 
billiards or go to bed. There is no middle course open 
to me." So I often used to drop in at his old Fifth Avenue 
house and save him from bed. 

We played a thing which he declared to be billiards. 
In reality it was an anomalous game of his own invention. 
There was about it none of the rigidity of age. Its chief 
virtue was the variety caused by its unceasing evolution. 
He treated it as if it were a story that he was writing, 
and kept inventing new rules as he went along. The 
basis of the plot was a pool table and three balls. 

He played with his whole soul and could not bear 
to lose. When an opponent threatened to overtake him 
he would become seriously agitated, hastily invent a 
new and more surprising rule, and forge ahead. 

As we were playing one afternoon, an old friend, whom 
we may call Amos X., arrived to spend the night. Mr. 
Clemens clasped him to his bosom, installed him in the 
adjoining room, and hastened eagerly back to make the 
next shot. Presently Mr. X. drifted in to watch, and 
was thoughtless enough to try and make conversation. 
"What have you been reading lately.'" he asked, just 
as my opponent was endeavoring to mark twain caroms 
and pocket himself off the red. Mr. Clemens started 
nervously and left me a golden opportunity. 

"Nothing," he answered shortly. "Given up reading. 
Do sit down, Amos!" 

But Amos continued to walk about close to the table, 
and talk, while his friend's game went to pieces. Dis- 
tractedly he invented a new rule. But it was a feeble 
one, and did not seriously check my steady advance 
toward his score. 

"Come on down to Florida with me," suggested Amos. 

"I've given up travelling," snapped the humorist. 
"Sit down!" 

But Amos explained that he had been sitting down 
enough in the train. In all innocence he jogged Mr. 
Clemens's cue arm during a critical shot, and began a 
long, arid tale about a Western college president visiting 
Rome, who went to some celebration at St. Peter's and 
was refused admittance because he had no ticket. "But 
I don't need one," the president declared. "I have an 
hereditary right in here." "How so.'" asked the door- 
keeper. "My name is Martin Luther," he answered. 
"Oh, all right, you may enter!" cried the doorkeeper. 

Mr. Clemens squeezed out a mirthless laugh. But I 
could see no mirth in his eyes. For, at the climax of 
the tale, he had miscued, and I had, in consequence, 
run fifteen and caught up to him. And he had been 
too much agitated even to improvise a new rule. 

Then Amos ambled on downstairs. Mr. Clemens 
watched the receding figure malevolently, and as soon 
as the other was out of earshot he delivered himself of 
a good, round expression filled with the tang of his pilot 
days on the Mississippi. 

"How," he cried, "does that uneasy chap suppose 
any one can play billiards while he's meanderin' round 
here talking about Luther and God a'mighty and other 
uninteresting people?" 

Robert Haven Schauffler. 



"Where did old Midas get that large collection of 
posters he has left to the Metropolitan Museum.'" 

"I am not sure, but I think it was made years ago 
by a Shanty Town goat." 



12 



BAZAAR DAILY 



BAZAAR DAILY 

Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 

Editor, ARLO BATES 

contributing editors 

William Dean Howells 
Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 

Margabet Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 

The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the Allied 
Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
taken at the booth. 



COPYRIGHT, 1QI6, BY ARLO BATES, »BOSTON, MASS. 



Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 

At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band and the 
Hawaiian Band each day from 4 to 6 p.m. 

In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
new and wonderful war pictures. 

Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of Webb 
of Brae-Burn Golf Club, Paul Revere Hall, 3 p.m. to 4 p.m. 
Eduard Jern, violinist to their Majesties, the King and 
Queen of Belgium. 

In Main Exhibition Hall at 9.30 an ovation to the 
Allied Colors. Miss Eyemael as little Miss Columbia. 

A QUACK is the shadow of a hypochondriac. 



The unoccupied have no leisure. 



America is the land of the free, and the home of the 
impertinent. 



We wonder whether the many gentlemen of leisure 
who have taken to knitting during the war will con- 
tinue that occupation after the need of sending stockings 
to the front is over. They find it an interesting and 
soothing occupation, and it may be that, in the future, 
elderly gentlemen will be found of an afternoon sitting 
in the Somerset and L'nion Clubs with their knitting, 
quite as a matter of course. 



A Crying Want. 



The number of societies in which executive people do 
good work and futile folk fuddle about is already large. 
We hesitate, in face of the number already organized, to 
suggest that yet another is urgently required; but we 
venture to think that some of those already in operation 
might wisely be disbanded to make room for a body so 
urgently needed. The Society for the Multiplication of 
Breakfast Foods, for instance, may be regarded as having 
accomplished all that could reasonably be expected of it, 
and perhaps even more. The Society for the Care of 
Bachelors' Stockings should certainly be given up, as it 
seriously discourages matrimony, and the good of the 
state is vitally interested in the maintenance of that 
institution. The League for Popularizing the Back Bay 
must be convinced that its efforts are fruitless, and com- 
mon sense would call for its abandonment. When these 
and others of the sort have been cleared away, abundant 
room will be found for the society we propose. Indeed, 
some new body would be needed to keep the professional 
managers of societies happy and out of mischief. The 



organization we have in mind need but be named to arouse 
interest and approval, for we mean nothing less than a 
Society for the Suppression of Cruelty to Neighbors. 

As things are at present, every man who lives in town is 
absolutely at the mercy of those dwelling near him. He 
is the slave of their caprices, the victim of their selfish- 
ness, and he has no one to help him to relief. His peace 
may be destroyed, his temper spoiled, his nerves shat- 
tered, by the folk next door; and all this without his 
being able to do anything unless he wishes to pay the 
penalty of being unpopular and regarded as a crank. 
The offenders have perfect immunity; and the singular 
thing about it is that people who themselves feel for the 
victim are yet so inconsistent as to feel also that he should 
submit in silence. The man whose neighbor keeps a dear 
little dog with a forty-horse-power yap, a dear little dog 
that takes his walks abroad at ten every evening with 
salvos of piercing yelps, only to awaken the community 
at five on the following morning with barks grown stronger 
and shriller overnight, is expected to endure it without 
making any trouble. The man who has next door a 
neighbor who thinks with monstrous self-deception that 
he can play the piano, and therefore strums for hours on 
an instrument set thoughtfully against the party-wall, 
is looked upon as a beast if he no more than sends in a 
polite note asking that he may have occasional respites. 
We all know neighborhoods that are made all but unin- 
habitable by music-machines of various sorts and varying 
degrees of deadliness. What is a man to do when the ' 
people near by have theories about the rearing of babies, 
put a bracket outside their nursery window, dispose on 
it the baby's basket, in the basket deposit a baby, and 
then leave it for hours to shriek to all the world and high 
heaven its anguish that its parents have not more sense? 
To complain is to show one's self an egotist opposed to 
all that is most elevating in human progress. Again, the 
dwellers in half a dozen houses find their light, their view, 
even their fresh air, cut off by a wall or an addition which 
a kindly gentleman has thrown up for the spiritual casti- 
gation of the neighborhood. All these and many more 
grievous wrongs call imperatively for the establishment 
of the new society. 

The S. S. C. N. — as the title would be used constantly, 
it would be well to abbreviate — should be ready in any 
case where a citizen is incommoded by those living near 
him, to step in and set things right. It should adjust 
those questions which are outside the law, and those deli- 
cate matters which victims shrink from taking in hand 
themselves. A man hesitates to tell his piano-mauling 
fellow-man, however obviously it be true, that he can 
play no better than a broken piston; but a dispassionate 
and impersonal society may send word to Mr. X. that 
his drumming is a nuisance to the folk for half a block. 
Mr. X. will be furiously angry, but he will not be able 
to fix a quarrel on any especial person, and that he has 
been warned by a society is a matter concerning which he 
is little likely to speak upon the housetops. The same 
principle holds good of yapping dogs, shrieking babies, 
canned-music noises, and all the rest of the doleful list. 
The amount of annoyance which will be saved, the 
human lots which will be ameliorated, the general oiling 
of social wheels which would follow from such a society 
as we propose, if it were properly administered and 
effectively run, would be simply incalculable. The suf- 
fering who are unable to right themselves because social 
conventions interfere would be then raised to the level of 
animals and children, for the good of either of which 
organizations already exist and win the admiration of the 
angels; and the world would be one more long and impor- 
tant step toward the realization of the ideal of universal 
peace and good-will. 



BAZAAR DAILY 



13 



The Editor's Callers. 

Myrtilla came into the sanctum with a thoughtful mien, 
. and after the conventional greetings sat for a moment 
without speaking. The Editor regarded her with the 
air which he affected, and which he tried to make suffi- 
ciently wise in appearance to cover the real lack of com- 
prehension which often lay under it as he endeavored to 
follow the vagaries of his feminine visitors. 

"No," Myrtilla observed at last, "I don't see the way 
out of it. The servant question is bad enough on the 
side of the girls themselves; but if their mistresses go on 
behaving as they do, we shall all have to give up house- 
keeping." 

" You may have to give it up," the Editor responded, not 
very wittily, "but all the same, you won't do it." 

"But things can't go much farther, and leave it possible 
for a woman who won't fight to keep her end up." 

The Editor regarded her thoughtfully, turning his 
pencil from end to end on his desk. 

"When a woman makes a general complaint," he ob- 
served, smiling, "a specific case is always behind it. 
What is the especial grievance in this case?" 

"I don't know," Myrtilla rejoined, "that that is any 
more likely to be true of a woman than of a man; but no 
matter. I did have Miriam's cook in mind." 

"If you have taken her into your mind," he compli- 
mented, with a flourish of his pencil, "Miriam's cook 
has a good place at least. But I thought Miriam was 
especially well pleased with her. How could you take 
her away.'" 

"I didn't. Somebody else did that. Would you be- 
lieve that Mrs. X. actually went to the house while 
Miriam was in New York, and bribed the cook with 
higher wages to come to her!" 

"I find it easier to believe things about Mrs. X.," the 
Editor observed, "from the fact that about her grand- 
father you couldn't tell the truth without being thought 
snobbish." 

"But I have known several ladies that have done the 
same thing." 

"To my antediluvian mind," the Editor observed 
thoughtfully, "it would seem impossible to apply the 
term 'lady' to a person who would bribe servants to leave 
their places." 

"At any rate," Myrtilla persisted, "it has been done to 
people I know by their own friends." 

"Then the persons you know," commented the Editor, 
suavely, "must be singularly unfortunate in their choice 
of friends. At least these marauders would be their 
friends no longer." 

Myrtilla looked at him in evident bewilderment. 

"Why not.?" she asked. 

The Editor smiled rather curiously, and began to tap 
the back of his left thumb with the pencil. 

"I meant nothing cryptic, my dear Myrtilla; but only 
the obvious thing that of course you couldn't continue 
to know a person who had taken a servant out of your 
house by bribery." 

"But you wouldn't quarrel over a thing like that.?" 

"I wouldn't have a well-bred person quarrel over any- 
thing; but this case seems simple. If a lady knows that 
one of her acquaintances has bought a servant out of her 
house, especially if that acquaintance has been a friend, 
she of course writes to her at once." 

"Writes to her.?" echoed Myrtilla, evidently puzzled. 
"Of course then there'd be a quarrel." 

"That depends upon whether she wrote properly. 
The letter should be especially polite, and as cordial as if 
nothing had happened." 

"But what could she sav.?" 



"She could say many things, but the things she would 
like to say would be just those which she must of course 
leave out. She in common honesty is bound to say to 
her friend that it has come to her ears that that friend 
has seduced away her cook, or her waitress, or whatever, 
by offering her higher wages; but that as it is of course 
inconceivable that her friend should do a thing so dis- 
honorable, she is very indignant on her friend's behalf, 
and she wishes to be able to defend her. So she asks 
her friend for a specific denial." 

Myrtilla looked at him with absorbed and envying 
intentness. 

"Oh," she breathed, clasping her hands in her lap, "I 
believe you'd dare do it." 

"I don't see where the daring comes in," he retorted, 
"but I should be heartily ashamed of myself if I did not." 

"But," Myrtilla said, evidently struggling with deep 
considerations, "I don't see what would come of it. The 
woman who would steal a servant would lie out of it." 

"That," the Editor assented, "is by no means improb- 
able; but you must remember that if she were guilty, 
she would be furious. She would be sure to tell the story; 
and she would know from the air, without anybody's 
saying it, that she was blamed. She would be so un- 
comfortable that her protestations would help to make 
the trick of stealing servants unpopular." 

His caller considered a couple of moments in profound 
silence. Then she looked up as if a new phase of the 
difficulty had just occurred to her. 

"But you see the trouble is," she said, "that all the 
women would blame the one that complained." 

"Why.? What could they blame her for.?" 

"Well," she answered ingenuously, yet with a smile 
which showed that her sense of humor was awake, "we 
always blame any woman that makes another uncom- 
fortable, even if she is in the right." 

"There is something in that," laughed the Editor. 
"It is a perversion of the sex instinct to defend a woman 
in everything and anything except when she attracts the 
men. Save for that unpardonable sin, you do stick to- 
gether pretty well. You see I am not a cynic." 

"What do you mean by that.?" 

"A cynic might attribute j'our feeling about a woman 
who puts another in the wrong to a lack of moral sensi- 
tiveness, or to a secret consciousness that the fault that 
is corrected, whatever it is, might be committed by any 
creature in petticoats. But I never hinted at either." 

Myrtilla rose, and he came to his feet also. 

"Well," she observed, holding out her hand in farewell, 
"you may be right about the way to treat servant-stealing, 
but I'm afraid the remedy will not be adopted." 

"Then the evil will go on," he said with a smile. "It 
is one of those social grievances the remedy for which 
is in the hands of the women and nowhere else. If every 
woman who was known to do a thing so mean was sent 
to Coventry, how long would it last.?" 

"Oh, that wouldn't do any good," Myrtilla responded 
with a smile a thousand times more charming, "for all 
the women who sent these women to Coventry would in 
turn be sent to Coventry themselves for doing it. So we 
should in the end all be there together!" 



At the Country Club one lady called another cheap. 
"Cheap!" ejaculated the friend with whom she was 
talking. "She's so cheap she might be put on a five- 
cent counter and marked down to three cents!" 



A Boston father was asked by his small son why sailors 
were called tars. "It may be, my son," the father replied, 
"because they are pitched about so much." 



14 



BAZAAR DAILY 



Through Suez Canal in War-time, 

We came down from Luxor to Cairo on Christmas Day, 
191 5, hoping to sail within a week for Boston via the 
Mediterranean and Naples. On our way down we saw 
from the train the long lines of earthworks along the 
western side of the canal, the fortifications of sandbags, 
of trenches, of embankments, seen from within. Soldiers 
were everywhere, and everywhere were at work strength- 
ening, extending, or perfecting the line. The evening 
sun shone on men and camels, on excavations, mounted 
guns, sentries, and camps; and yet it all was so peaceful, 
so quiet, and so remote, that it seemed hardly to be 
really war. 

As we started from the station to drive to the hotel in 
Cairo, however, we found ourselves in an atmosphere 
anything but placid. The city was full of troops newly 
returned from Gallipoli, and the lawless Australians, of 
whom the saying in Cairo was "they are magnificent 
fighters, but they are not soldiers," were celebrating 
Christmas in their usual boisterous fashion. We drove 
to the entrance of a square, hearing the roar of the crowd 
grow more and more overpowering as we advanced, and 
suddenly we had a glimpse of long tongues of flame 
against which a wild and swirling mob was silhouetted. 
Of course we thought of a riot. At that instant our cab 
was stopped by the police, and turned about to get to 
the hotel by a roundabout route, and we naturally thought 
that the feeling about Gallipoli, which we knew to be 
strong, had brought an outbreak of the mob. It proved, 
however, that it was nothing but a bonfire in the street, 
a feu de joie kindled by the irrepressible Australian con- 
tingent. 

The news from the Mediterranean was not reassuring. 
The Pacific had just been sent to the bottom, and trav- 
elling by the P. and O. boats was looked upon as a des- 
perate necessity or an act of sheer madness. As neither 
of us would risk the other to attempt the passage of the 
torpedo-ridden sea, although each of us had made it 
separately, a good deal of discussion ended in a visit to 
Cook's, with a view of ascertaining what were the pros- 
pects of getting to America by way of the Pacific. The 
result was not encouraging. Cook's agents offered to 
book us to Yokohama by P. and O. boats, a change being 
made at Colombo, but this arrangement was dependent 
upon the safe arrival of the Medina, due the following 
week from England. Whether she came through un- 
scathed or shared the fate of her sister ship the Pacific 
no man could tell. Beyond Yokohama the agency would 
promise nothing. None of the steamships of any bel- 
ligerent nation any longer advertised sailings, and they 
had no knowledge of what boats went between Japan 
and America, or when they went. They could assure us 
that some lines were still running, and that we should be 
able to obtain information at Singapore. They thought 
the chance of our getting a boat to San Francisco fairly 
good, and it might even be that by the time we reached 
China some of the steamers of the Empress line might be 
once more in operation. 

He who cannot do what -he would, does what he may. 
We took passage to Yokohama, and on January 7, 
according to advice, we went on to Port Said. Nobody 
knew when the Medina would arrive; she was due, but 
the only evidence of her being still above water was that 
no news had come in of her destruction. She did not 
arrive on the 7th, nor yet on the 8th. When on Satur- 
day night, January 8, we went to bed at eleven, no news 
had been received. It was understood, however, that 
the boat would not use wireless, lest it indicate her 
whereabouts to hostile craft. At about seven in the 
morning on Sunday, the 9th, we were awakened by an 



agent from Cook's, who came to say that the Medina 
had come in soon after midnight, and would sail that 
day. We were to go on board that forenoon. 

I cannot conceive that any human being could ever 
leave Port Said with any feeling save that of gratitude 
for his escape, and we were only too glad of the chance 
to start for Japan ten days before the time we had fixed 
in leaving the Soudan for arrival in Boston. We were 
at the wharf with a rather formidable array of luggage 
somewhere about ten, and after an hour of struggle we 
got on board. We were passed ?rom hand to hand, and 
the officials, although they were courteous, were too 
numerous to be finished with quickly. The first official 
had apparently no duty beyond seeing that the names 
on our passports were not on a black-list of persons for- 
bidden to leave Egypt. Finding that no evidence existed 
here of any interest on the part of the government to 
keep us longer in the land, he passed us to another, who 
compared us with the passports aforesaid to see whether 
anything appeared to indicate that we might be using the 
papers of others. So we went from hand to hand, seeing 
as we waited the doorkeepers feeling the flowing garments 
of all who passed in and out to be sure that they carried 
no concealed weapons. Then our seventeen pieces of 
luggage came under inspection. In a large case of 
ethnological material the agent at Congdon's, in Cairo, 
had, for his own convenience, put a couple of rifles. As 
the law did not allow the taking of firearms out of Egypt, 
the discovery of these might have made trouble; but 
fortunately the case was not opened, no awkward ques- 
tions touched upon the subject, and at the long last we 
found ourselves and our belongings on the steamer. 

What the journey across the submarine area had been 
was indicated in some degree by various things we noted 
when we went on board. All the glass in ports and 
windows was pasted over with a double layer of thick 
paper, a brown layer and a black; in the cabins were 
notices forbidding the turning up of any light while a 
window was open; the bridge was piled with sandbags, 
which made of it a miniature fortress; on the bulletin- 
boards were lists of all the men among the passengers, 
assigning each to a watch, and telling the hours, by night 
as well as by day, when each watch was on duty. The 
watches were of two hours each, every man had his 
assigned post, and the passengers in this duty were on 
the same footing as the regular crew. Each passenger 
was assigned to a definite lifeboat, the notice being in each 
cabin and on the general bulletin. Something of these 
precautions I had known on the Italian steamer when I 
crossed from Naples to Alexandria in October; but noth- 
ing approaching the thoroughness of detail which had 
evidently been observed on the Medina. 

The talk in the smoking-room for the first day or two 
after we boarded the steamer was largely concerned with 
the perils through which the company had come. After 
dinner on the first evening, I heard three men discussing 
whether the rumor which had at one time spread over the 
ship somewhere in the Mediterranean, — for the passen- 
gers, as the boat constantly zigzagged and doubled about, 
never knew where they were, — to the effect that the watch 
had actually sighted a submarine, had been true. The 
decision was that on the whole the tale was not probable, 
as, had it been true, the whistle would, according to pre- 
arranged plan, have signalled the passengers to their 
respective lifeboats. The men were by no means sure, 
however, and I gathered from their talk that at the time 
of the rumor the tale was largely believed on board. 
This sort of talk was not uncommon for days; and, al- 
though always quiet, it showed plainly enough how great 
must have been the tension in that erratic darkened 
voyage from the Pillars of Hercules to Port Said. 



BAZAAR DAILY 



15 



We actually began the passage of the canal at about 
four-thirty in the afternoon. We steamed first slowly 
past a row of battleships at anchor on the east side of the 
canal, largely French. On one torpedo-destroyer with 
the English flag, a marine was sending a message by the 
violent wigwagging of flags which is seldom missing from 
military operations; while in the bow of the thin, knife- 
like craft, which stood so high out of water, were gath- 
ered apparently officers, marines, and crew. Somebody on 
the deck of the Medina below that on which I stood recog- 
nized the boat, and when lie called it out our passengers 
and crew alike began to cheer together. I had been so 
out of touch with details of the war in the winter, fifteen 
miles from the nearest post-station in the Soudan, that 
the name meant nothing to me; but the cheering from 
one boat to the other, and back again from the torpedo- 
destroyer, easily told its own story. 

Next came another row of battleships, this time on the 
Port Said side, and among them a Red Cross steamer 
with a semaphore doing the violent wigwag signalling, as 
if nobody could be spared from hospital duty, and it 
must be done by machinery. Here the bow was crowded 
with convalescents, and again cheers were interchanged. 
The thin, feebly eager cheers of the wounded men took 
one suddenly by the throat, so cheery and plucky were 
they, and so vividly did they suggest what all this meant. 

The canal as we drew on was fortified on both sides, 
and encampments were abundant. Embankments, rifle- 
pits, sandbag-redoubts, fairly line the canal from Port 
Said to the Bitter Lakes. Constantly the figures of the 
Sikhs, with wonderfully serious bearing, with turbans, 
like their clothing, of dust-hue, paced up and down on 
sentinel duty along the margin of the canal, or were sil- 
houetted against the sky on every rise. They were singu- 
larly impressive, and no less was there about them an 
air of unreality, as if one were seeing the ghosts of former 
peoples watching this new waterway through the imme- 
morial Egyptian sands. 

Soon we came to the refugee camps where were quar- 
tered the remnants of the wretched Armenians who had 
brought their lives out of the Turkish shambles. Here 
the children seemed innumerable, and as they came rac- 
ing down to the edge of the canal, often, if appearances 
could be trusted, at the imminent risk of tumbling in, 
the camps were stirred like an ant-hill into which a stick 
has been thrust. A number of the youngsters and now 
and then an adult were dressed in the brightest scarlet, 
and stood out as vividly as the poinsettias in an Egyptian 
garden; and as occasionally a woman in long flowing 
robe of lemon-yellow would appear, always moving as if 
sent in by the stage-manager to give a touch of color, the 
scene did not lack effectiveness. 

Among our passengers was the Maharajah of Kapur- 
thala, with his wife, — formerly the well-known Spanish 
dancer, Otera, — his son, and such of his suite as had not 
gone down in the ill-fated Pacific when she was torpe- 
doed. One of the suite called out greetings to the Hindu 
soldiers as we passed, but the response was not much. 
A Cingalese gentleman also pronounced weird vocables 
at the top of his voice, but the call and the replies were of 
course equally unintelligible to the rest of us. 

We had on board, I may note in passing, an Australian 
Jew who had been one of the passengers on the Pacific. 
He came on at Port Said, and I overheard him say to a 
passenger, in relating his experiences in the disaster: 
"That is a time when a man of course looks out for him- 
self first." He had stamped all over him the signs of a 
man who would look out for himself first; and by the end 
of twenty-four hours he was practically left by the pas- 
sengers to look out for himself for the remainder of the 
voyage. a. b. 

(To he continued.) 



Fifty Doggerel Charades. 

VI. 

First, second, third we early learn 
On fourths when we would play; 

With fifth grimace that we must turn 
Into my whole this waj'; 

While sixth, old Ann, our kindly nurse, 

Declares much learning is a curse. 

VII. 

Combat is by my first begun, 

My second marks its close; 
My second shuns the glaring sun, 

Save when, the whole world knows, 
Thousands to see it strike attend. 
And shouts the listening heavens rend. 

My third has served the preacher's ends, 

And points a moral well; 
My whole in sport or strife contends, 

Where human passions swell. 
My hated third can always make me feel 
As if I were my whole, for woe or weal. 

VIII. 

Uncommonly alike my first and third, 
Though one belongs to man and one to bird; 
My first is heard where farmers second vales, 
My whole where raging waves cry to wild gales. 

IX. 

My first my second brings, 

As from my whole death springs. 

X. 

My first is always touching pitch, 

Yet never is defiled; 
My second always must be dear. 

Although a little wild: 
Yet is not first or second good 

Until by fire tried. 
My whole is famous from the fact 
It never is descried. 
t^ 
XL 
My first across the plain 

Boldly my second rode; 
When first had come again, 
Then him my first bestrode. 



The Letter Bag, 

[The French IFounded Fund has received a number of poetical letlers 
of thanks from wounded soldiers in the French hospitals. The following is 
an example.] 

RONDEAU. 
d'un petit pensionnaire de l'hopital. 

Merci de vos bontes, semeuses de bonheurs, 
De vos sourires doux comme parfums de fleurs! 
Merci des vceux lointains qui rechauffent nos ames! 
Les blesses attendris vous desirent, Mesdames, 
De vivre de longs jours loin de maux et des pleurs. 

Vos actes sont marques de charmes enjoleurs, 
Nous y reconnaissons la bonte de vos cceurs 
Et ce tact delicat qui distingue les femmes. 
Merci de vos bontes! 

Vous temoignez surtout aux peuples imposteurs 
Que nous sommes du droit les nobles defenseurs! 
Vos sourires charmantes, vos cadeaux sont des blames 
Aux tyrans escortes de leur troupes infames. 
Oui! pour nous acquitter nous reviendrons vainqueurs 
Merci de vos bontes. 

Hopital Auxilaire, Millau, Aveyron. 
[This may be translated: Rondeau of a little patient in the hospital. 
Thanks for your gifts, sowers of good fortune, of smiles sweet as the perfuvie 
of flowers! Thanks for the distant wishes which refresh our spirits! The 
wounded, touched deeply, desire for you, ladies, that you may live long, far 
from evils and tears. Your deeds are marked by engaging charms; we 
recognize in them the goodness of your hearts and the delicate tact which 
distinguishes woman. Thanks for your gifts! You testify above all to 
false peoples that we are noble defenders of the right! Your charming 
smiles, your benefits are so many reproaches to the tyrannical leaders of 
their infamous armies. Yes, to justify ourselves we shall return conquerors 
thanks to your gifts!] 



16 



BAZAAR DAILY 



THL B05T0N MOTHER G005L. 

II. 

THL 5TRLLT5. 

On Beacon Hill the Brahmins dwell, 
And visitors with reverence tell 
How Culture trickles, rill on rill. 
As it would all the gutters fill. 



When Boston planned her streets, she laid 

The ends of two together; 
And thus adroit provision made 

To suit all tastes in weather. 
For when one walks up Summer Street 

Winter awaits the comer; 
While if down Winter step one's feet. 

He plunges into Summer. 



The Garden guards the Avenue 
From contact with the Common; 

The two things common there are wealth 
And statues one 'd drop bomb on. 



When ships come o'er the ocean blue. 
The patient wharves in waiting stand 

Along Atlantic Avenue, 
Nuzzling black noses on the land. 



On Harrison Avenue, Ah Ting Tang, 
And Hi Chung Lung, and Ho King Kang, 
And Ha Hang Wang, and Hu Hong Kong, 
And Sam Tee Hee, and Suey Tong, 
And a lot beside, by the way abide. 
Like broken china on every side. 



In Salem Street on all the stores 
The signs appear like music-scores ; 
And noses curve in such a way 
That "Holy Moses!" each seems to say. 



On the wrong side of Beacon Hill, 
The colored gather with a will; 
And Joy Street so was called, they say. 
From shouts of pickaninnies at play. 



No Boston architect can ever idle be. 
For when he has a day to spare. 

He must on fresh design work steadily 
For rearranging Copley Square. 



Hey diddle-diddle, a mall in the middle. 
The Avenue stretches proud; 

The babies there gather 

In sunshiny weather. 
The jolliest prettiest crowd. 



If you would know concrete respectability. 
With iust a savor of antique gentility. 
Just go some afternoon to take the air, 
And walk about Louisburg Square. 



Perfectly Possible. 

Davenport, Iowa, May 20, 19 — . 

Dear Mother, — It was such a comfort to know that you 
had left safely before the enemy landed. The reports 
are dreadful. You remember Mrs. Carron, the sweet 
little rosy-cheeked, gray-haired lady whose farm is just 
outside our town on the Brady Street road; she gave you 
recipes, she was a wonderful cook. The yelcurs* cap- 
tured the little town where her daughter and her husband 
were. He was a doctor and wouldn't run away. Her 
daughter's husband was killed protecting his wife; and 
the two little girls were killed, somehow; and her daughter 
— well, she got the first news last week; this morning she 
came into town for news, and came to us. Phoebe opened 
the door, and the minute she saw her, Phcebe began to 
cry. The change in that woman! Mother, you remem- 
ber her, how she looked, so cheery, so comfortable — 
the clothes just hung on her shoulders they were so loose, 
and her face was the color of tallow; Phoebe simply fell 
on her neck, sobbing; she was so ashamed she said after- 
wards, but she couldn't help it. But Mrs. Carron 
smiled the strangest smile and said, — I can't get the sound 
of her voice out of my ears, — "Don't cry, dear, I haven't 
slept since I heard; but I'll sleep to-night. I've had good 
news; Bessie killed herself and the little girls before they 
could touch them." I made sure the news was true; 
then I left the women crying together; and I walked out 
into the back yard, and I walked up and down with my 
fists clenched and swore and swore. Oh, not at the 
yelcurs, at ourselves who wouldn't prepare in time when 
we could. But I don't trust myself to think of that! 
Don't worry about us, here. We've plenty to eat, and 
at reasonable prices. That's because our farmers can't 
send their crops away. They are safe, but they are 
ruined. Our manufacturers have turned their ploughs 
into swords. They send them under guards; and all the 
arsenal guns are sent with armored trains. Some pro- 
visions go, but not very much; and of course we can't 
send any abroad. About all our young men have vol- 
unteered. We have splendid generals, and our armies 
are being trained by defeat. They can't conquer us; 
but oh, at what a woful, wasteful cost we shall win! 
Tom is better; he wants to go back on his wooden leg; 
says a wooden leg is as good as a live one for a chauffeur. 
Oh, don't be afraid of the end, we'll win; and the middle 
west will fight with the best of them. 

Your aff. son, 

Timothy. 

P.S. The aeroplane raid did no especial damage to 
property, only killed one man, and he was a pacifist. 
They were trying to dynamite the bridge; so Brother 
John says, "No harm intended and not much done!" 

P.S. 2. I wish you could see the way the boys work at 
the arsenal; I wanted to go to the front, but the colonel 
told me I was worth more than a regiment where I am. 
So you needn't mention me in your prayers; give them all 
to young Tim and Brother John. We'll win. You will 
see. 

Octave Thanet. 



Announcement that some famous surgeon has suc- 
ceeded in making a heart beet after death makes the whole 
world wonder. — G. A. Martin, Boston Transcript. 

To have made any kind of a beet, even before death, 
would have been wonderful; but this is "past all whoop- 
ing." 



A crowd is like a clock, — somebody must wind it up 
before it will strike. 

* Opprobrious slang name for the enemy. 



DEC 13 1916 



71IU1 



BAZAAR DAILY 



10 Cents 



TUESDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1916 



No. 3 




"By Gad, son, this will be 'some' meal — if we're not killed before!" 



18 



BAZAAR DAILY 



The Lonely Legion. 

We had not known what envy is 

Until we saw you fighting there, 
England and France and your Allies, 

All glorious in your despair. 
And smiling, as they smile who die 
For Freedom's immortality. 

We are the Legion of your blood, 

Sworn, too, to die that Honor live. 
We light a fight scarce understood, — 

A little in our hand to give, 
But in our ears the clanging shame 
Of our besmirched, dishonored name. 

Pray for us: here in darkness we 

Wade through the swamp and breast the stream. 
For us no fiaming victory, 

No lustihood of banners' gleam: 
Only to keep the faith, as you 
Have kept it, resolutely true. 

You who will march in triumph home. 
Bright as the sun's compelling spears. 

Remember through the time to come, 
The dewy, peace-encircling years, 

There fought for you, obscured, afar, 

An uncrowned Legion of the War. 

Alice Brov 



The Nook. 



Sheila wakened herself in the gray morning twilight by 
speaking aloud. 

"Yes, Angus," she said, "I will come." 

She had dreamed that Angus, passing the Manse gate 
in the early forenoon, had seen her in the garden tying up 
the hollyhocks, and had come to the gate to give her 
greeting; and that after they had clasped hands through 
the grille, he had asked her to keep tryst at the Nook. 

"When grandmother is asleep this afternoon," she had 
said, "I can get away. Yes, Angus, I will come." 

So vivid had been the dream that she had answered 
not in her mind, but with actual audible speech which 
woke her. She lay awake now, fully aware that it was 
only a dream. She looked out of the latticed window, 
leftopen so that the cool September air had free access. 
A little breeze stirred the looped-back muslin curtains, 
and the clematis vine, already beginning to drop its 
leaves, tangled across the top, marked against the gray 
sky. She would not have been Scotch had she not won- 
dered whether the dream were uncanny; but she was 
healthily modern, and not given to thinking every trifle 
of which the explanation was not at first evident as there- 
fore fey. She at once began to account for the direction 
her thoughts had taken in sleep. She remembered that 
last night she had decided that the hollyhocks, rudely 
treated by yesterday's storm, must be tied up, and that 
as she did so she had recalled how last year when she was 
doing this very thing Angus had come by, and the little 
scene of her dream had been really enacted. The vivid- 
ness of her vision was doubtless accounted for by this 
fact. As for the Nook, she had not visited it since 
Angus left for the front. She could not bear it. No, 
she could not bring herself to take the memory-haunted 
path along the shore, and climb to the quaint niche set 
high in the crag, with its little cushion of grass, seat 
just large enough for two. She could hardly bear now to 
look at the sea across which he had sailed away, and she 
would not trust herself in face of that wide prospect 
they had so often seen together. 

Through the day, in all her duties, a sort of undercurrent 
of her dream went with her. Last night in remembering 
she had been sad; now that she had in her dream relived 
the meeting, she had almost the sense of having really 
seen Angus in the flesh, a pleasant warmth such as 



might come to a lover who saw the shadow of his lady 
cross a lighted window. She did not at all think of going 
to the Nook, even when late in the afternoon she set 
out for a walk. The querulous bedridden invalid on 
whom were lavished her days had sunk into the sleep 
which came as a merciful respite at this time of day; 
and for almost the only hours between waking and 
sleeping she could safely call her own. Sheila, storm or 
shine, went into the open. She walked slowly down the 
garden-path to the gate, which in itself, with its tall 
stone posts and strongly designed grille, gave to the Manse 
an air of distinction; she passed through it, and hesi- 
tated a moment, considering which way she should walk. 
As she did so, she turned, from old habit, to glance at the 
dole-niche. A shock thrilled through her. The dole- 
niche was a hollow cut deeply into the stone of one of 
the gate-posts in the shape of a cross. Her great-great- 
great-grandfather, who built the Manse, had had it made 
there. In his day, and for some generations after, it 
had always, night and day, summer and winter, held 
bite and sup ready to the hand of any wayfarer in need. 
The niche now stood empty, save when the wind threw 
leaves into it or one was laid there by intention. Now 
in the dole-niche, on the bottom of the cross, lay a single 
green rowan-leaf. It was the token by which Angus 
had been wont to summon her to a tryst in the Nook. 
Sheila looked at it for a startled moment as if it were a 
trick of fancy; then she turned quickly, and with all the 
speed possible in her walk she hurried toward the shore- 
path and the cliffs. 

A walk of a quarter of an hour and ten minutes of stiff 
climbing were needed to take her to the trysting-place. 
As she made the sharp turn of the cliff which brought 
her to it, she almost said to herself with a smile: "I am 
here first." Then it came over her how foolish she had 
been to let a stray leaf, tossed about by the wind in yes- 
terday's storm, send her on such an errand. She was a 
little out of breath with her swift climb, and a sudden sense 
of her loneliness brought a gush of tears to her eyes, as 
she sank down upon the grassy seat. She looked out over 
the blue sea with blurred vision; but she held herself 
sharply in hand. She had promised Angus that what- 
ever happened she would meet it bravely. "Whatever 
happens," she repeated to herself; "even if — " But 
she choked back the weakness, and repeated to herself 
firmly: "Whatever happens." It was not for nothing 
that she came of old and sturdy northern stock. The 
marrow in her bones had been passed down from heroes. 

It was perhaps the strength which came from this self- 
mastery, perhaps it was the association with which the 
Nook was rich; but all at once she was comforted with 
a sense of peace and well-being such as she had not known 
since she said good-by to Angus. It was almost as if 
he were sitting beside her, not with the sadness of their 
last tryst the afternoon before his regiment started; but 
as if out of dreadful battle-fields he had returned safe 
and with honor. She thought of the pride which had 
thrilled her when the news came that he had won the 
V. C, and she believed that other honors were in store for 
him. She set her face resolutely to the sea, that she 
might not turn to look at the empty place at her side. 
She could fancy him therej she actually felt that he must 
be there. The sea was flecked with white-caps, and over 
it to and fro the gulls were crossing and curving in their 
swooping flights. She fixed her attention on them with 
a half-conscious resolve not to reason about the matter 
of Angus' presence; she would just give herself up com- 
pletely to the joy of imagining it, and shut out disturbing 
reality. For some moments in the fading afternoon she 
sat in this curious frame of mind, a sort of waking dream, 
the feeling that he was near warming her like sunshine. 



BAZAAR DAILY 



19 



Suddenly three cormorants went with heavy swiftness 
across her field of vision, flying low over the sea, and stand- 
ing out blackly against the sky just above the horizon- 
line, — the cormorants, omen of evil. She turned sharply 
to look, and saw the empty seat beside her. She could 
hold the illusion no longer. She was alone, and Angus 
was across the sea in the Valley of the Shadow of Death; 
somewhere beyond the flight of those birds of evil omen, 
in peril, perhaps suffering, perhaps dead. 

She threw up her head proudly and turned to the sea 
as one who faces a challenge. The cormorants had dis- 
appeared as suddenly as they had come, perhaps having 
dropped in their flight until they were merged in the 
shadow below the bright horizon-line. 

"Whatever happens!" she said aloud, softly and firmly. 

As she spoke a light touch seemed to fall on her fore- 
head. The sensation was as real as if actual lips had 
given the caress. A shock of realization thrilled through 
her. Her lips parted, her eyes were dilated. Her con- 
viction was full and absolute. She knew that Angus 
was dead, and she believed that his spirit was with her 
in the Nook. 

"It will be so he is telling me," she said in her thought. 
"It will be so he thinks I can bear it best." 

A supreme wonder and unspeakable joy possessed her. 
The solemnity of her experience shut out for the time 
being any possible emotion of sorrow. Between Angus 
and her death had been but the means of fresh and 
marvellous proof of how true was his love for her and how 
abiding. She sat entranced with the wonder of it, sur- 
rounded by a consciousness of his presence hardly less 
tangible than the soft breath of the dying day which 
touched her cheek. She accepted the fact he had come to 
tell, and of his love that coming was a proof so absolute 
as to strike her with positive awe. She no longer knew 
time or place, or remembered the bitterness of separation 
through the coming years. The moment was complete 
and supreme. 

Suddenly she rose. Something had brought her to 
her feet as if by a volition outside of herself. She looked 
about, and realized how the light had faded. The path 
down the cliff could not be passed in safety much longer. 
She smiled with a blessed feeling of being watched and 
guarded. 

"He wouldn't be willing I'd fall," she murmured happily 
to herself as she turned away from the Nook and began 
the descent. 

She did not look back. She left nothing behind, for 
the presence was still with her. 

She had no need to break the seal of the official letter 
which waited for her at the Manse. She knew its tidings 
already. 

Egdon Craige. 



The Sharpshooters. 

[The following extract is, by the courtesy of Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Com- 
pany, taken from "At Suvla Bay," to be published early in the New Year. It 
is the account of a fui'llli!! Bby'Scout, who, as a member of the Royal Army 
Medical Corps, served at Gallipoli.] 

. . . We were working our stretcher-bearers as far as 
Brigade Headquarters, which were situated on a steep 
backbone-like spur of the Kapanja Sirt. One of my 
"lance-jacks" (lance-corporals) had been missing for a 
good long time, and we began to fear he was either shot 
or taken prisoner with others who had gone too far up 
the Sirt. 

That afternoon we were resting among the rocks, 
waiting for the wounded to be sent back to us; for since 
the loss of the other we were not allowed past the Brigade 
Headquarters. There was a lull in the fighting, with 
only a few bursting shrapnel now and then. . . . Fairly 



late in the day as we all lay sprawling on the rocks or 
under the thorn-bushes, I saw a little party staggering 
along the defile which led up to the Sirt at this point. 
There were two men with cowboy hats, and between 
them they helped another very thin and very exhausted- 
looking fellow, who tottered along holding one arm which 
had been wounded. As they came closer I recognized 
my lost lance-jack, very pale and shaky, a little thinner 
than usual, and with a hint of that gleam of sniper-mad- 
ness which I have noticed before in the jumpy, unsteady 
eyes of hunted men. The other two, one on each side, 
were sturdy enough. Well-built men, one short and the 
other tall, with great rough hands, sunburnt faces, and 
bare arms. They wore brown leggings and riding- 
breeches and khaki shirts. They carried their rifles at 
the trail, and strode up to us with the graceful gait of 
those accustomed to outdoor life. 

"y^i'cstralians!" said some one. 

"An' the corporal!" 

Immediately our men roused up, and gathered round. 

"Where's yer boss.?" asked the tall Colonial. 

"The adjutant is over there," I answered. 

"We'd like a word with 'im," continued the man. 

I took them up to the officer, and they both saluted in an 
easy-going sort of way. 

"We found 'im up there," the Australian jerked his 
head, "being sniped, and couldn't get away — says 'e 
belongs t' th' 3 2d Ambulance — so 'ere 'e is." 

The two Australians were just about to slouch ofi^ again 
when the adjutant called them back. 

"Where did you find him.'"' he asked. 

"Up beyond Jefferson's Post; there was five snipers 
pottin' at 'im, an' it looked mighty like as if 'is number 
was up. We killed four o' the snipers, and got 'im out." 

"That was very good of you. Did you see any more 
Medical Corps up there? We've lost some others, and 
an officer and sergeant." 

"No, I didn't spot any — did you. Bill.'"' The tall man 
turned to his pal leaning on his rifle. 

"No," answered the short sharpshooter; "he's the only 
one. It was a good afternoon's sport — very good. We 
saw 'e'd got no rifle, and was in a tight clove-'itch, so we 
took the job on right there an' finished four of 'em; but 
it took some creepin' and crawlin'." 

"Well, we'll be quittin' this now," said the 
"There's only one thing we'd ask of you, sir; 
our people know anything about this." 

"But why.'"' asked the adjutant, astonished, 
saved his life, and it ought to be known." 

"Ya-as, that may be, sir; but we're not supposed to 
be up here sharpshootin' — we jist done it fer a bit of 
sport. Rightly we don't carry a rifle; we belong to the 
bridge-buildin' section. We've only borrowed these rifles 
from the Cycle Corps, an' we shall be charged with bein' 
out o' bounds without leave, an' all that sort o' thing, if 
it gits known down to our headquarters." 

"Very well, I'll tell no one; all the same it was good 
work, and we thank you for getting him back to us," the 
adjutant smiled. 

The two Australians gave him a friendly nod, and said, 
"So long, you chaps!" to us, and lurched off down the 
defile. 

"We'll chuck it fer to-day — done enough," said the 
tall man. 

"Ya-as, we'd better git back. It was good sport — 
very good," said the short one. 



tall one. 
don't let 

"You've 



The object of fashions is not to make persons more 
beautiful, but to render them more noticeable. This is 
the reason why they must so constantly be changed. 



20 



BAZAAR DAILY 



BAZAAR DAILY 

Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 

Editor, ARLO BATES 

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 

William Dean Howells 
Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 

Margaret Delanb. Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 

The Daily is issued daily for the ten weclc-days of the Allied 
Bazaar in Bostolf. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
sent to the Edit/r, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
at the Bazaar/ Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
taken at thelSooth. 



^ 



COPYRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 



Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 

At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band and the 
Hawaiian Band each day from 4 to 6 p.m. 

In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
new and wonderful war pictures. 

Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of James 
Kaye of WoUaston Golf Club. 

Paul Revere Hall, 3 to 4. — Miss Lucretia Craig, dancer; 
Miss Ippolito, violinist; Estreleta, Hawaiian dancer, with 
Hawaiian Band. 

4.30 to 5.30. — Concert Programme: Mr. Griffiths, — Miss 
Ethel Harding, pianist; Miss Henrietta Adams, soprano; 
Miss Grace Sage, reader. 

8 to 9. — Madame Aleta, dancer, partner, Mr. Rand; 
Miss Buccuantini, singer. Miss Rodney Smith, singer, in 
costume; Mr. De Giso, accordion player. 

9.30 o'clock Main Exhibition Hall. — Madame Anna 
Arnold will sing patriotic songs, with chorus. 

The Daily takes much pleasure in announcing several 
gifts of $10 each, and one of $75. The donors do not wish 
their names mentioned. 



The Daily is proud of its brilliant cartoons, of which 
one will appear in each number. Signed proofs by the 
artist, Baron Charles Huard, can be bought at the booth 
of the Daily, No. 36, for the moderate price of $1 each. 
The original of each cartoon will also be on sale each day. 

The Aldrich autograph, of which the text is printed 
in another column, is a rare treasure for a collector. 
Pieces of this sort are not often in the market. The 
autographs on sale at the book-shop where this is to be 
found, it may be noted in passing, are really astonishingly 
good and varied. Letters and manuscripts which in the 
ordinary course of events would never have come into 
the market are to be found there in wonderful profusion. 



Mrs. Governor McCall will assist at the Book Booth 
on Tuesday afternoon. 



A Book Annex has been opened in the kiosk in the main 
hall near the entertainment platform. 



All who have in any way assisted in the preparation 
of the Christmas bags which have been sent over to the 
hospitals, making, filling, packing, or sending, must have 
a peculiar warmth about their hearts at this holiday time. 
It is pleasant to think of the thousands of hurt soldiers, 
men maimed, sick, sorry, mutilated, even living their 
last days, who will be cheered by these messengers of 
good-will from over-seas. To the furnishing of these 



sachets have gone many kindly and loving thoughts; 
nimble fingers, quick minds, and blessed feelings of pity 
have all helped in their making; and the war-torn world 
will at Christmastide be happier for their ministry. One 
lady in this neighborhood had the happy inspiration of 
putting into those which passed through her hands, 
and these were many, some token marked to be given 
by the recipient to his nurse. To make the soldiers 
sharers in the privilege and delight of giving was a last 
dear touch, a bit of imaginative sympathy that was , 
delightful. The Boston branch of workers for the 
French Wounded forwarded between 11,000 and 12,000 
of these Christmas bags. Those who packed boxes of 
them, while joking with each other about being special 
agents of Santa Claus, were conscious deep down of a 
sentiment too delicate and too tender to be easily put 
into word. 



The Editor's Callers. 

"I hate Mrs. Candor," Tom declared viciously. "She 
talks of nothing but people. I detest gossip!" 

The Editor smiled with an air perhaps a trifle too 
superior. 

"There is no doubt you hate her," he returned, "but 
it is not for talking about people. What else do folk 
ever talk about in society.^" 

"But she gossips, and I tell you I cannot bear gossip." 

"Nonsense. We all love gossip." 

"Speak for yourself," Tom retorted incisively. "Very 
likely you do. I thank Heaven I don't." 

"I certainly do," was the placid response. "If you 
don't, as you pharisaically say, why have you been asking 
me all those questions about the girl Frank South is 
engaged to, and the amount of money old Jackscrew left, 
and how — " 

"Oh, give us a rest!" broke in Tom. "That isn't 
gossip. That's just natural interest in my neighbors." 

The Editor laughed, and now with an air most cer- 
tainly too superior. 

"Perhaps you will favor me with a definition," he said. 
"Just what, according to your notion, is this objection- 
able thing gossip.'" 

"Why, gossip," Tom began; then he hesitated. 
"Pshaw! Of course anybody knows what gossip is. It's 
talk about other people's affairs." 

"Like details about the girls they are engaged to, and 
the amount of money they leave in their wills, for in- 
stance." 

"Oh, bother your cheek! Of course one asks things 
like that." 

"Of course one does," assented the Editor, imperturb- 
ably. "That's why I say we all love gossip." 

"But gossip," Insisted Tom, "is different. I stick to it 
that something should be done to stop all this talk about 
people." 

"You hold on to an idea like a whippet to a catching- 
cloth," commented the Editor, with a grin. "What 
would become of history.? It is all talk about people." 

"But that's facts." 

"Um. Is it.? Perhaps so. But letting that go, I 
suppose that what you are driving at is that talk is all 
right, if one sticks to facts." 

"Of course," assented Tom, fairly leaping into the trap. 

"Then why on earth, if you don't mind my asking, did 
you come in here in such a fume because Mrs. Candor had 
told the truth about Dick's engagement being oflF?" 

Tom shook himself impatiently in his chair. 

"Look here!" he broke out explosively, "if you think 
I'm a beetle on a pin — " 

"'Cockchafer' is more generally used in that phrase," 



BAZAAR DAILY 



21 



murmured the other. The caller glared at him, but re- 
fused to be diverted. 

"A beetle on a pin to squirm for your amusement," 
he went on, "you are tremendously mistaken. You 
know that gossip is talk about people." 

"A kit is a cat, but a cat is not necessarily a kit." 

"And that there is too much of it," Tom said, per- 
sisting to the end of what he started to say. 

The Editor laughed, and evidently decided to stop 
chaffing. 

"Don't get excited," he said. "I know what you 
mean well enough. I've had practice in guessing at your 
ideas from the words that literally convey something 
quite different. But it's more than you know yourself. 
What you are driving at is talk that is malicious. Mrs. 
Candor is generally malicious." 

"Well, isn't gossip always ill-natured.'"' 

"My dear Tom, you and I, as I have already had the 
honor to point out to you, gossip every day; but there 
certainly is nothing ill-natured about it." 

Tom gave an impatient shake of the head. 

"I hate that word 'gossip,'" he declared explosively. 
"I swear that when I talk about people I don't gossip." 

The Editor laughed. 

"Don't get excited over a mere question of terms," he 
responded. "Certainly in the phrase 'a dish of gossip' 
nothing unpleasant is implied. I started to call your 
attention to the fact that what you object to in Mrs. 
Candor is not what she talks about, but the temper in 
which it is done." 

"But you keep harping on that beastly word 'gossip,' 
as if society was a set of malicious old women." 

"It was your own word to start with. Call your talk 
about Frank South's fiancee and so on whatever you 
please. I call it gossip because I don't know of any 
better word for the discussion of the affairs of our neigh- 
bors that interest us, but which are in reality none of our 
especial concern. It is perfectly normal that we should be 
interested in these matters, and I can see no virtue in 
pretending that we are not." 

"But everybody knows," Tom insisted stubbornly, 
"that gossip is nasty and offensive." 

"If you define it as meaning something nasty and 
offensive, of course it is. That is not the way I under- 
stand the word. I consider the love of gossip as a 
maligned virtue." 

"Rubbish! Now you are talking for the sake of hear- 
ing the sound of your little ideas," Tom said rudely. 
"I've noticed that a man with weak ideas is like a woman 
with ugly girls: always bringing them forward." 

"Bravo, Tom! Are you also of the makers of epi- 
grams.?" 

"Well," the caller said, rising, "I dropped in to see if 
I could stir you up a bit, and I may as well give you up." 

"Like other deeds of self-sacrifice," the Editor observed 
with a smile, "your act seems to be its own reward; 
for you got stirred up yourself." 

Tom turned his hat around to get it right for his head. 

"If I were as clever as you pretend to be," he said with 
a ponderous effort to be crushing, "I would always speak 
in a dead language." 

The Editor laughed boyishly. 

"I say," he retorted, "that reminds me. You have of 
course heard the old tag of Terence: ' Humani nihil a 
me alienum piito.^ Do you know what it means.?" 

"Of course I know. Don't you remember how old 
Professor Ferox was always slinging it at us.? 'I'm 
indifferent to nothing that concerns humanity,'" Tom 
quoted with a mimicry of the old Latin professor's manner. 

"It really means," corrected the Editor, with a smile, 
'"If there is one thing I really enjoy, it is a good dish of 
gossip.' " 



Rangardo's Song. 

I saw a fairy, a fairy, a fairy; 

I saw a fairy, down in tlie dell! 

She danced, oh, so lightly, 

With motions so airy! 
She glanced, oh, so brightly, 
With eyes watching wary! 
Was never a dancer who danced so well, 
As that lovely fairy I saw in the dell. 

Thistle-down gliding, and gliding, and gliding. 
Rides not the zephyr as lightly as she; 
Now rising so fleetly, 

And nowhere abiding; 
Now sinking so sweetly. 
In curves gently sliding; 
A swallow that slcims o'er the sun-gleaming sea 
Not swifter, or brighter, or buoyant could be. 

I love the fairy, the fairy, the fairy. 
Fairy that vanished down there in the dell; 
For oh, she danced lightly, 

With motions so airy! 
She smiled at me brightly. 
With eyes bold and wary! 
But whither she vanished, or where she may dwell. 
Neither the winds nor the waters will tell. 



HiLAD. 



The following letter from Lord Northcliffe, editor of 
the London Times, is here printed because it expresses 
so clear an appreciation of the sympathy in America 
for the Allied Cause. The original may be seen at the 
bookstall. 

"'Boston,' says a German newspaper, speaking of 
an attempt at propaganda in the Hub, 'we have found to 
be an impossible proposition.' 

"Only a German would have failed to realize that the 
'Mayflower,' Old South Meeting-house, Faneuil Hall, 
and the Harbor mean something to all Anglo-Saxons. 

"We Allies know that the names of Longfellow, Haw- 
thorne, Emerson, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, James, 
Eliot, and how many more, are indestructible links 
between us. We know what Harvard thinks about the 
war. 

"We know that the best blood in th^ United States 
is ready, if the need arise, to be shed, once more, in the 
cause of freedom. Happily the need has not arisen. 
We are able to slay the Dragon ourselves. But none 
the less we are grateful for the sympathy of the Real 
Americans. 

Northcliffe." 



Boston is a unique compound of utter recklessness in 
theory with the utmost caution in action. 



With lots of folk the reward of virtue is just plain self- 
conceit. 



A BLUFF is always called at Time's poker-table. 



Philanthropy is too often largely the attempt to 
force helpless people to be uncomfortable in our way, in 
place of being comfortable in their own. 



A weary and tired-out chap 

Was determined to catch a small nap; 

He put salt on its tail. 

But that did not avail. 
For it slipped out from under his hat. 



A lady came to Spotless Town 

With polka-dots all over her gown; 

And the ladies thought it so beautiful, they 

Stopped washing the spots from their gowns to this day. 



22 



BAZAAR DAILY 



Through Suez Canal in War-time. 

{CoiitiiiKcd.) 

Ramparts, embankments, the fortifications of which we 
had seen the inside from the train windows as we came 
down from Luxor, the Sikh sentinels, with now and then 
an Austrahan on duty, continued as we went on. The 
day faded quickly, according to its wont in these regions, 
and the camp-fires began to assert themselves rather by 
flame than by smoke. The figures of the sentinels be- 
came moving shadows, and faces were no longer distinct. 
Once, however, before the darkness quite cut us off from 
the personalities on the shore, an officer on the Medina 
recognized a brother oflncer on whose face the shore-fires 
cast a full light. 

"Hallo, Dalrymple," he called out. "How goes it.?" 

"Who are you?" came back from the shore, the firelit 
spot with the wide, dusk desert behind it. 

"I'm Linton," was the answer from our deck. 

"Where are you going.?" 

"To Lidia." 

The response came back in a voice mingling good- 
fellowship, whimsical raillery, and an indescribable flavor 
of weariness. Perhaps the contrast between India and 
the oppressive monotony of life on guard in the desert 
rushed over the speaker, as the boat w'ent sliding past on 
the way to the Red Sea and the lands beyond. 

"Oh, you old shirker!" Dalrymple cried. 

The Australian soldiery had succeeded now to the 
Indian troops. Their camps were universally riotously 
noisy with boisterous mirth. Songs and laughter frothed 
up like the bubbling of a pot that boils over; and as the 
Medina passed, a constant stream of chaff and greeting 
came to us from the darkened shore. A favorite cry, 
shouted through megaphones with all the vigor of bull- 
strong lungs, was the doggerel sarcasm: 

"We're the boys 
Tlvat make no noise!" 

Once from beside an Australian camp-fire a big voice 
shouted: 

" Are there any ladies on board .? " 

"Plenty of 'em," cried somebody from the second- 
cabin deck. 

"Oh, throw 'em overboard!" roared back the strenu- 
ous soldier chorus. "We'll catch 'em! God bless the 
ladies!" 

Again to a post that seemed comparatively quiet was 
tossed from our decks the call: "Who are you.?" 

As if a regiment had awakened to a man, and all 
shouted together, came back the answer: "We'm the 
Australians! We'm waitin' for the Turks!" 

Some time in the night — I slept too soundly to know 
when — we halted a couple of hours. Four steamers were 
coming in the other direction, and had the right of way. 
The result was that the southern end of the canal, which 
otherwise we should have passed in darkness, we took 
by daylight. 

The fortifications continue throughout, and of course 
are much the same all along. They are somewhat more 
elaborate toward the Suez end, and here one got a wider 
outlook into the Eastern Desert. The forces and the 
encampments are larger when they are so far south that 
the question of protecting the approaches from the east 
is more pressing. The redoubts are higher, the works 
extend farther back from the canal, and frequently men 
were to be seen at work on trenches or embankments a 
mile or two back. The desert is not picturesque as seen 
from the steamer. It has none of that enchantment 
which belongs to the wonderful stretches around Gizeh 
or farther up the Nile below the First Cataract. It is 
equally far removed, it is fair to add, from the inexpressi- 
ble dreariness of the desert of the Second Cataract region. 



The land is dry and arid, and nothing obstructs the view 
for miles; so that the soldiers at work even at a consider- 
able distance were easily watched through a binocular. 

Fairly early in the forenoon the sailors finished putting 
the ship into the ordinary conditions of peace. The 
paper was peeled from the glass, the sandbags had dis- 
appeared from the bridge, and once more we were in 
appearance an ordinary P. and O. boat going on its 
unmolested way to Australia via India and Java. 

After breakfast the passengers began the game of 
flinging tins of cigarettes to the soldiers in the camps as 
we went past. The distance to the shore was about twice 
throwing distance, but the tins floated, and had to be 
retrieved by swimming. The first Australian whom I 
saw start for them modestly kept on his shirt until he 
was above his middle in the water; but this refinement of 
modesty was not copied. Scores of men, as we went on, 
ran to the edge of the canal, stripped to the buff, unde- 
terred by the fact that every woman on the Medina 
was at the rail. In they went, like a flock of schoolboys 
on a frolic, shouting and laughing. The Australian, 
whatever else he may be, is eminently a noisy creature. 
Once a cluster of officers on a pier did send in a superior 
manner a picturesque Soudanese out in a boat to do the 
harvesting; but this was the single exception. 

Just beyond this little pier was another, and on it sat 
rows of little Ghurkas, the silent, slant-eyed, mysterious, 
imperially independent folk out of the hills of India, — the 
people who were outside of the jurisdiction of England, 
who volunteered to fight, and when they first arrived in 
Egypt refused to land because the actual fighting was 
farther on. They are a silent race, and among the tur- 
bulent Australians seemed more quiet than ever. They 
sat amid the cheering of the white soldiers which ran along 
the banks, and grinned like little Japanese netsukes 
carved out of cherry-wood. Not a sound came from 
their throats or lips, but they clapped their hands with 
fervor and seeming glee. 

When we were well past the last garrison, nearing Suez, 
and all opportunity for further distribution of nicotine 
was ended, a couple of women of the provincial-woman's- 
club type of Australian appeared from below with arms 
full of tins of cigarettes and of sweetmeats. They were 
a good deal annoyed that the chance of bestowing gifts 
was over, and showed a strong sense of indignation that 
the Medina had not waited their movements. One of 
them declared fervently, and with an accent which in 
America would have been called, to use an Englishman's 
expression, the " nasal eloquence of the backwoods," that 
she had never known anything so mean in her life. One 
of her countrymen, of the uncouth commercial traveller 
breed, suggested that he would take the cigarettes, as he 
had thrown all his overboard, but he was sharply informed 
that they were not brought for him. 

The whole passage of the canal, of which this is a pale 
record, was really an experience with a genuine thrill in 
it. Those encampments, with the grimness of the desert 
behind; the water that man had made to cross a conti- 
nent to serve his ends, and for the possession of which 
forces were hovering over there in the Eastern Desert, 
impelled and planned for and incited by councils in Con- 
stantinople and in Berlin; the historic suggestiveness of 
the "old palm-land of tombs" in which the struggle was 
taking place; all that the presence here of troops from 
the ends of the earth meant; and all the principles which 
the measureless contest involved and implied; — a man 
must have been cloddishly insensitive not to feel it. It 
had none of the horror of the war-front where actual 
fighting was in progress, but perhaps for that very reason 
the imagination could work more unimpeded and force- 
fully. I am entirely aware that simply to say that it 



BAZAAR DAILY 



23 



was thrilling will not carry conviction; but it was an 
experience which one was not likely to hold lightly or 
soon to forget. 

And so we went through the Bitter Lakes, past insig- 
nificant Shaluf with its oil-tanks, past stupid Suez, down 
the Gulf of Suez, and on into the almost Gulf Stream 
blueness of the miscalled Red Sea. a. b. 



Fifty Doggerel Charades. 

XII. 
My first is often full of meat; 

With drink my second plies. 
Either in heaps is far from neat; 

Yet either doubt defies. 
When on my first has followed fast 

My first and second too, 
Then is the giddy midnight passed 

M)- whole in whirling through. 

XIII. 
A sailor brought from southern seas 

First w'holes within a cage. 
"If these," he said, "should fail to please, 

Naught second, I'll engage." 

But when he^tood before his miss, 

Shyness possessed his soul. 
"Alas!" he cried, "may not one kiss?" 

"Nay," answered she, "but whole!" 

XIV. 
"Now second first," the landlord cried, 

Who on my second stood; 
"Pain in my whole," the man replied, 

"Prevents me, or I w'ould." 

XV. 

To my first she went for mj' second. 

Her nerves beyond control; 
And gay was her heart returning. 

Since health was now her whole. 

XVI. 

St. Anthony, within his cell. 
Found himself in my third; 

A ribald first, direct from hell, 
.■\ frightful demon herd, 

Had made him second from his soul, 

Despite the power of my whole. 



The Letter Bag. 

[The following extracts art- translated from the letters written to an Ameri- 
can lady from the front. The first is from "the trenches of Farm M.," 
the others from the neighborhood of Verdun. Their intelligence, feeling, 
and courage all speak for themselves.] 

Sunday, September 20, 1915. 

. . . You belong to a neutral nation, which is a country great by 
its extent, by its resources, by its riches, and above all by elevation and 
independence of character. Having been much in France, you are 
not ignorant of the cordial feelings which we have for the United States: 
they are those of a people loving liberty for a people who cultivate it. 
I have indeed been happy, very happy, that in the bloody conflict 
which desolates Europe and holds the whole world in suspense, the 
sympathies of the majority of Americans should be like yours, and bound 
to our cause. France has not wished this war. The proof is that she 
was not prepared for it: she endures it. Despite the warnings of far- 
seeing men of intelligence, a notable portion of public opinion cradled 
itself in the generous illusions of certain pacifists who clung to chimeras; 
and we all have participated in the punishment of that error. We have 
e.xpiated by living through days of agony. But even in our worst 
moments, we have not despaired. We preserve unshaken the certainty 
that this which deserves to endure cannot perish; that retreat is not 
defeat; that sometime the sunrise of victory will rise over the road of 
our destiny. And we have known happy days of the offensive and of 
success, success which began a year ago. This is because the war of 
activity has succeeded to that war of position [resistance] that is so 
little to the taste of our national temperament and so adapted to the 
temperament of our adversaries. It is necessary to recognize also 
that all that human intelligence could foresee in the attack they pre- 
meditated, the Germans had provided for. But they have deceived 
themselves grossly in the psychological domain where their methods 
were not sufficient, — where mental finesse is needed. They have be- 



lieved that Belgium would submit to violation without resistance; 
that England without protest would let them disregard the treaties 
they have signed; and after these capital errors, they have made this 
of believing that France could not hold. We have held, we have 
adapted ourselves to the exigencies of the situation, and we have easily 
accepted this life in the trenches for which wc are so little made. 

. . . The moral tone of the army continues excellent. It gives me 
pleasure to know and to tell you that this is no less true of the country 
at large. We have been unfairly judged abroad; we have been judged 
there by what we say of ourselves, and of ourselves we have said hard 
things, not as mere fanfaronade, but from a spirit of modesty. Then 
strangers, who have seen little of intimate French family life, know us 
only from superficial outward appearances, social phases, or romances. 
This terrible war may have among other good results, that of correcting 
erroneous opinions in regard to us in the opinion of those whose esteem 
we desire. ... 

[We venture to emphasize this extract not only because it so clearly gives the 
earnest side of the writer, but because it expresses truthfully a certain type of 
American opinion in regard to the French people, and the fine and dignified 
sentiment which is often among that sensitive race concealed under apparent 
indifference or folly. The lightness of certain phases of French — or, more 
strictly speaking, of Parisian — life has been continually commented upon, and 
often exaggerated from being seen through eyes behind whicii lived brains not 
untouched with Puritan super-gravity. No one who has known the intimacies of 
French life is Ignorant of the real seriousness which underlies the gayety of 
the French temperament; but for those who do not, the earnest words of this 
letter, literally written in the trenches, are worth thoughtful consideration. — Ed.) 

The trenches of Wood B.M. Saturday, June 4, 1916. 

. . . You must excuse me that I have been so slow in answering. 
Very sad events have prevented. My young brother was killed on the 
twenty-sixth of last March. We received the news a month and a 
half afterward. ... 

He was a young lad of great charm, before whom opened a future of 
promise. He attracted by his delicate and reasonable nature, his quick 
brain, his refined spirit. The war had greatly matured his spirit, de- 
veloped his judgment, and refined his character, so that he presented 
a happy mixture of youth and maturity. Although far from one 
another, we lived for long months the same life of hardships, of fatigues, 
of dangers; and thus was created a fresh sympathy between us. We 
had much in common already: he had a taste for belles-lettres, he painted 
with talent, he was fond of music; nothing that belong to the arts left 
him indifferent. He loved me much, and I warmly returned his affec- 
tion. Since he had come out safe and sound from numerous hard 
engagements into which he had been thrown, I cherished the illusion 
that he would win to the end of the campaign without serious harm; 
and then a bullet fired too surely has cut him down in his twenty-second 
year. He had been mentioned for brave conduct in a hot skirmish three 
days before; he was brave. . . . 

We have suffered during two years a terrible assault. Much blood, 
many tears have been spilled; sorrows have been multiplied; miseries 
have accumulated; but the cause which we defend merits the sacrifices 
which it demands. ... I write these lines by the light of a candle, in 
one of our shelters that we call " guitonne" or "gourbi." It is silent 
around; for the moment the cannon are quiet. The night is clear, and 
one might say that Nature demanded that man should let her repose. . . . 

From the trenches of Wood B.M. .'\ug. 4, igi6. 

... Of all the neutral countries the good-will which we most prize 
is that of yours. . . . Your institutions and ours are not identical in form, 
but they are practically directed to the same ideal of liberty and jus- 
tice. . . . Nothing can destroy the past, and as to-day "the Stars and 
Stripes salutes the Tricolor," our flag saluted the aurora of your his- 
tory. . . . 



Sun and Sunflower. 

Said the Sun to his faithful flower: 
"Please show me your back, at least an hour. 
Always the same black face before me. 
You have no notion how you bore me!" 

"Ah," sighed the Flower to Apollo, 
"I would I might your wishes follow; 
But you perhaps are not aware 
I'm wholly lacking in back-hair!" 



When one sees a Hindu god of many faces and many 
hands, one feels sure that the modern type of politician 
must have been known in India of old. 



"Tom, do be careful. You almost knocked 
vase down with your arm on the mantel." 
"I didn't come within two feet of it." 
"You did, and more too." 



that 



24 



BAZAAR DAILY 



THL BOSTON MOTHER G005L. 

III. 

THL CHURCHLS. 

On 5alem Street a steeple stands 
Whose story 's known in many lands ; 
For there the lanterns flashed out clear 
Their message to bold Paul Revere. 



The Holy Trumpeters they sound 
With none awake to hear; 

But sometimes in a dream profound, 
Men know their music clear. 



O Holy Moses and world of sin ! 
If Tremont Temple you enter in. 
You'll find the architecture worst 
Was ever devised since Adam was cursed. 



If you grave dignity would spy, 
Just on King's Chapel cast an eye. 



Said the saints in a row to the statue below: 
"What has happened your anger to rouse?" 

"It would anger a saint!" came back the com- 
plaint; 
"They have stolen the half of my house!" 



Said the New Old South to the Old Old South: 

"I am handsomer far than you!" 
Said the Old Old South to the New Old South: 

"That depends on the point of view." 



In the Spiritual Temple 
The ghosts gave matinees. 

Till men found how much better 
The Pickford movie pays. 



The bells of the Advent 

They made such a clatter 
The pigeons all went 

To see what was the matter, — 
Such a tintinnabulation. 

Such clangors and such swells, 
Jingle-jangled from their station 

Those most voluble of bells. 
So on the roof the pigeons settled. 
And there their feathers preened and fettled. 
Outside the Advent is not high ; 
I5ut if one goes within — oh, my! 



The church on Park Street corner stands 
Is a receptacle for brands 
Plucked from the brimstone fires that flame 
In that dread place one does not name. 



When churches die in Boston, 
To theatres they are turned; 

To have a chance at gaiety 
Is the reward they've earned. 



Says Arlington Church: "Hear, all ye people! 
You see these urns up on my steeple ; 
They are full of virtue's holy oil. 
Put up high to keep cool, so it may not spoil." 



An Aldrich Autograph. 

[At the book-stall in the Bazaar is to be found on sale a most interesting auto- 
graph. It is an amusing skit, entirely in Mr. Aldrich's writing, and was found 
among his posthumous papers. It is full of the author's characteristic fun, 
and those who knew him can in reading it almost see the contagious twinkle 
of his eye and hear the charm of the voice which gave double zest to any quip 
or fancy which bubbled up so spontaneously from his quick mind. It is an 
autograph which any collector, and no less any book-lover, might own with 
delight. — Ed.] 

THE SHAKESPEARE-BACON IDIOCY. 

So Bacon wrote our Shakespeare's plays, 

And also Marlowe's "mighty line," 
And Burton's prose, and Spenser's lays, 

.t\nd Peel's and Green's dull things — in fine 
Wrote Bacon. Well, if this is thus, 
Then Bacon was industrious — 
One might quite say, voluminous! 

Forgive me, thou whose ashes rest 

Beside the Avon, that I can 
Even for a moment and in jest 

Waste words upon a charlatan. 

The above was of course written before my conversion 
from a weak and childish belief in the Fraud of Avon. 
But now I am thoroughly converted. After (not years, 
but) minutes of the severest mental strain, I have my- 
self discovered a cipher (and the lack of one at the end of 
the numerals representing my this year's income) by 
which I can prove that Sir Francis Bacon wrote Words- 
worth's poems, and left them for post-humorous publica- 
tion. That several of these so-called poems deal with 
events which took place long after Bacon's death, is a 
fact that will not in the least trouble any good, intelli- 
gent Baconite — intelligent Baconite seems almost like 
tautology! 

My investigations and discoveries do not end here. 
"Season your admiration for a while," as Horatio re- 
marks in Lord Bacon's tragedy of "Hamlet." I have 
procured two large-size regulation drums (from Fort 
Warren) on which I shall plaster the complete works of 
Amelie Rives and Edgar Saltus and those of the alleged 
Wordsworth; from these masterpieces I shall select, by 
an ingenious method of my own, detached words and 
sentences which, being joined together with Standard 
Mucilage, will form an uninterrupted narrative showing 
conclusively that E. A. Poe was the unnatural son of 
Lydia Pinkham by a very particular friend (as they 
would have said in the eighteenth century) of George 
Francis Train. The dramatic critic of The Szcavxpscott 
and Munchausen Gazette, a gentleman of the highest 
culture, and the only adequate literary authority we have 
(now that Howells has gone to New York to "write up" 
the millionaires), endorses cordially all 1 have said — ^and 
more too! This is no catch-penny job.* 

I am really deeply grieved that William S. has turned 
out so badly. My book will sell at 50 cents in paper and 
75 cents in cloth, with liberal discount to the trade. 

Yours respectfully, 
Robert Babington Southey Macaulay Jones, M.D., 
Harvard Annex, A. S. S. (Anti-Shakespeare Society), 

University of Shawmut. 

*No connection with the exploded "Great Cryptogram" of the late Mr. 
Ignauseous Donnelly. 



Bailey appeared at the door with his new roller-skates: 
"Mother, you'll have to scratch these skates for me — ■ 
they are so slippery I can't stand up." 



DEC 15 1916 



pu.B:{7r^i>*"i 



BAZAAR DAILY 



10 Cents 



BOSTON, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1916 



No. 4 
















-^if?Tm:^i 



"Listen, Jules, all you've got to do is to cross Paris and take a train for St. Gauberge. There 
you'll get a stagecoach that'll drop you at La Pernelle. You'll take the road to the right after you've 
passed the church. Walk about two kilometers and then ask any one where I live. Every one 
knows me." 



20 



BAZAAR DAILY 



Old Plastersides. 

(On the Technology "Bucentaur," wrecked in Clurles River 
Basin, October, 1916.) 

Ay, tear her battered statues down! 

Long — long enough-^the eye 
Has twinkled at their foolish look 

Against the evening sky; 
About her glowed the red-fire's light, 

And swelled the Tcchnic roar; — 
The great Caproni's shop afloat 

Shall plough the Charles no more. 

Her deck, once packed with bored trustees, — 

That perfect night in June! — 
With bandsmen and with choristers, 

All more or less in tune, 
No more shall bear such precious freight — 

Keys, charter, treasured things; 
The "muckers" of the North-West End 

Shall pluck her cherubs' wings! 

Oh, better that her leaky hulk 

Should sink just out of sight! 
(Alas, that such a tipsy bark 

Can be so far from tight!) 
If but the flood were deep enough 

For one dark farewell plunge! 
'Tis not — then give the Basin's Queen 

A superdreadnought sponge! 

M. A. DeWolfe Howe. 



A Discord Stilled. 

Susanna Clay could not remember the time when she 
and her cousin Jerry, many times removed, did not 
quarrel. They had begun it while they were little, going 
to school in District Number Five. They had continued 
it when Jerry went into the singing seats and Susanna, 
who had no ear, but strong lungs, wrecked the congrega- 
tional singing with her loud dissonances. Jerry told her 
plainly she had no ear, and Susanna retorted that she had 
a voice, and when she felt like singing she should sing. 
In the intervals when they were not quarrelling they had 
wildly happy times together, and while the happiness 
lasted it seemed as if they never should quarrel again. 
And after their last quarrel, about Aunt Selina's clock 
•which Susanna said had descended from her own great- 
grandfather Peters, and Jerry said had come from his 
great-grandfather Green, it seemed they never could 
make up again. They went to Aunt Selina to settle the 
dispute, and she, sitting with the Bible in her hand and 
looking over it, as it seemed, into her empty grave and 
wondering how fleeting mortality should fret itself about 
clocks, only said placidly: "I can't remember, children. 
Sometime I'll look it up." In a day or two after that 
Jerry got a good position with a builder, fifty miles away, 
and disappeared without even bidding Susanna good-by. 
Susanna cried that night, though she tried to think it was 
because Aunt Selina was so feeble. Then in two years 
Aunt Selina died, and in an unsigned memorandum she 
left Susanna her personal effects and with them the clock. 
Her house had been mortgaged long ago, and the money 
eaten up, and there was nothing else to leave. Susanna, 
who was living quite alone now, set the clock upon the 
mantel and regarded it with fond eyes. She had always 
loved it, and now it had an added value because Jerry 
had loved it, too. She was sure he had not forgotten it. 
She knew him, as she had often told him, sometimes in 
anger and oftener in fun, root and branch, egg and bird. 

One night in the late fall she was sitting by her shining 
lamp, and the clock was ticking tranquilly. She had a 
story to read in the County Star, and a dish of apples at 
her side, and she was almost content. If she allowed 
herself to think, she knew she might be very lonely; but 



she did not intend to think. As she settled to her story 
there came a knock at the door, and at the same time a 
voice called from without: 

"Don't be scared. It's me." 

It was a voice she knew. She could not get to the door 
fast enough. Sh^ threw it open, and there he was, older, 
but handsomer, well-knit and sinewy. She kept his 
hand, and began pulling him into the room. 

"Why, Jerry," she said, and she was between laughter 
and crying. "Why, Jerry, you here.?" 

,He laughed a little, too, but his face was flushed and 
he kept her hand even after he was seated and Susanna 
stood by him, thinking how he had brought the sweet 
cold air in with him. And then they began to quarrel. 

"By George!" said he, when Susanna was seated at the 
other corner of the hearth. "You've got Aunt Selina's 
clock. Or maybe she told you to keep it till I come round 
again." 

Susanna thought he was reviving the old dispute for fun. 

"No," said she. "She never so much as thought o' 
you, so far as the clock's concerned. She knew 'twas 
mine by rights." 

"I dunno why it's yours by rights," said Jerry. "That 
clock come down from great-grandfather Green — " 

"Oh, no, it didn't," said Susanna. "'Twas my great- 
grandfather Peter's, an' it's mine." 

She was half in fun when she said it, and she was 
willing to believe Jerry was in fun, too; yet she knew 
they were suddenly both in earnest. A deeper flush had 
come into Jerry's face; his eyes gloomed upon her re- 
proachfully. 

"It ain't that I want the clock," he began, and Susanna 
interrupted him: 

"If it ain't the clock, then what is it.?" 

"It's your bein' so confounded obstinate," said Jerry 
in good faith, and again she interrupted him with a sudden 
hoot of laughter. 

"Obstinate!" said she. "My soul!" 

Jerry rose to his feet. 

"Yes," he said, "obstinate. You'd ought to be paid 
out for it. You'd ought to lose that clock. An' I'll 
miss my guess if you don't, some fine day or other." 
And he took his hat and walked out of the house. 

Susanna sat still and waited for him to come back. 
He had always come back in the old days, sheepish and 
sorry. But the clock went ticking serenely on, and a 
stick broke and fell. When the clock struck eight she 
looked up at it and frowned. It seemed to have made 
all her misfortune, and at nine she went to bed. 

The next morning Susanna locked her house early and 
started across lots to spend the day with Isabel Pierce, 
who lived over the Ridge. Isabel was an old school 
friend who liked to have her at any time, and she felt this 
was the day to go, so that Jerry, when he came to her 
door, sheepish and sorry, would find it locked. Susanna 
reasoned that he had really hurt her feelings, and it would 
be exceedingly bad for him to find himself forgiven, as 
he must be if she saw him, for that had always been the 
way. It was after dark when she got home again, and her 
heart did fail her, the empty house looked so desolate. 
But she made her fire on the hearth and lighted two 
lamps, one for the kitchen and one for the sitting-room, 
and then, because she suddenly knew he would not come 
at all, she went into the dark bedroom, and put her 
elbows on the bureau and her head in her hands, and 
cried. Yet Susanna knew that would never do. She 
had learned that those who live alone must, when they 
feel like crying, put on an added cheerfulness, and she 
wiped her eyes savagely, and went back to sit by her crack- 
ling fire. And as she went she took the "Choral Harp" 
from the centre-table, and sat down with it, to sing 



BAZAAR DAILY 



27 



herself into calm. She often sang to herself when she 
needed to, and she opened first, by custom, to a joyful 
hymn. She began it in a weak and tearful voice; but the 
spirit of it uplifted her, and she sang stridently and with 
a mounting courage. And then she sang another and 
another, and ever her voice rose more and more. But 
at a pause she was aware that some one was battering on 
the cellar door and a man's voice was calling: 

"Stop that! stop that, I say!" 

Again Susanna knew the voice. She threw down the 
"Choral Harp," and hurried to the cellar door. There he 
was on the top stair, laughing, but nevertheless sheepish 
and sorry. Susanna, too, began to laugh and again she 
took his hand and drew him in. 

"What under the sun you down cellar for.'" she 
asked. 

Jerry stood in the kitchen and ran his fingers through his 
hair. 

"Well," said he, "I broke an' entered. I was goin" 
to steal that infernal clock. An' then you come in the 
front way, an' I stepped down cellar." 

"O Jerry," said Susanna, "d'you want the clock so much 
as that.? You take it then. I don't set half so much by 
it as I do by your thinkin' well o' me." 

Jerry stood staring at her so long that she thought he 
had forgotten her altogether, and was looking through her 
at some dream or purpose of his own. 

"By George, Susanna," said he, "I know what makes 
us fight so. It ain't because we ain't friends, an' more. 
It's because we set the world by one another, an' if we 
once owned it an' give up to it, we could live together as 
budge as you please. Susanna, I'm goin' to kiss you, 
an' within a week we're goin' to get married an' move 
away from here for good, an' you can take your old clock 
along or you can smash it against the wall. I don't 
care. Susanna, you come here." 

It was late when he went away, and the}' stood for a 
long time in the cold, sweet air, saying good-night. 
Susanna laughed a little. 

"Jerry," said she, "you needn't ha' hollered for me to 
let you up. You could ha' crep' out through the kitchen, 
and I never should known you were there at all." 

Jerry laughed, too. 

"'Twa'n't that," he said. "I wa'n't hoUerin' to be let 
up. I was hollerin' to stop your singin' off the key." 

Alice Brown. 



A Daily Paper of the Past. 

I wonder, Mr. Editor, how many of your readers now 
living (I like this careful way of putting the case) will 
remember a certain enterprise akin to your own but in- 
spired by a wholly different occasion: perhaps only we who 
took a chief part in that enterprise, which, I had better 
say at once, was a daily paper published fifty years ago 
in the interest of a Bazar calling itself a Great Peace 
Jubilee, which was held in a coliseum built of pine boards 
in a region of the Back Bay now covered deep and wide 
with the stateliest edifices of Commonwealth Avenue 
and its parallel streets. Mr. Patrick Gilmore, the 
greatest band-master known to his time, was the ade- 
quate impresario of the vast affair, and he conducted the 
choral performance of forty thousand voices (mostly 
girls' voices) which daily hailed the return of good feeling 
between the North and the South at the close of four 
years of Civil War, when the Jubilee had been dedicated 
to universal good-will by the great general who fought 
that war to its glorious event in the reunion of all the 
States. 

Everything was on a gigantic scale which could hardly 



be exaggerated, but was perhaps a little overstated in 
some of the joyous gibes which attended the distinctive 
moments. It is perfectly true that a park of artillery 
daily sounded the notes of the noble Anvil Chorus, but 
it was not perhaps exact to say that the Jubilee was 
opened with prayer by a hundred ministers. No de- 
scription, however, could have exceeded the great central 
fact of the singing, and when that stupendous utterance 
followed at a wave of the director's baton the sight was 
as magnificent as the sound. The multitudinous sea of 
faces smote the eye like a vision of the. Heavenly Host 
that accompanied the music of the stars when they sang 
together and all the sons of God shouted for joy; but 
I suppose the chorus was really made up of the human 
elements which usually constitute church choirs and 
musical societies. I never had speech with any member 
of that chorus until the other day (or month, or year) 
when an ageless young lady of Beacon Hill (the best part 
of the Hill) avowed that she had sung in that chorus 
when more actually a girl. She did not seem to share 
my astonishment at the fact any more than she partook 
of my satisfaction in declaring that I was one of the chief 
writers, if not the very chief writer, on Jubilee Days. 

That was what w^ called the daily paper of our Bazar, 
and I know it will sensibly increase my glory from it 
when I add that my prime associate was our dear dead, 
undying Aldrich. Of course we had a managing editor, 
who was Mr. Stanwood, then of the Daily Advertiser 
(you need not say Advertiser in those days; The Daily 
said it all), and of course we had a publisher, who was 
nearly as young as ourselves and worthy as any publisher 
could be of two such promising authors. He was the 
vividly hopeful and courageous James R. Osgood, who 
indomitably lost money on every one of the Jubilee Days, 
and generously shared his misfortunes with us in the 
hour of final settlement. With the affair quite in our 
own hands, we had thought we might as well contribute 
in verse as in prose, and we mainly did so, naturally 
expecting that we should be paid for our work as poetry; 
but what was our surprise and pain when Osgood paid 
for it as prose. We soon forgave him, for we loved in 
him the habitual liberality which he was obliged by mis- 
fortune to blink at a crucial moment; and now he lies 
in Kendal Green, and my thought goes to him there 
in tender regret for his loss to Boston and then to New 
York, and then to the gain of London, where he died in 
the hour of success crowning so many years of failure. 

Our themes were always the events of the Jubilee, and 
I have been surprised in looking over my file of our paper 
to see how much of these events we made, not to say how 
many. We had the most brilliant artist of his day to 
illustrate us, and Augustus Hoppin did not ultimately 
succeed in sparing us some personal touches of his satirical 
pencil; we had begun it by not sparing him altogether 
with our pens. His brilliant work was interpreted to 
the public by a new sort of etching process in a day 
long before the day of half-tone; but if it must have been 
cut in wood there was the prince of wood engravers, 
A. V. S. Antony, in the sole employ of Osgood, to do it. 

My bound copy of Jubilee Days is one of the few ex- 
tant, and I wish it were the only one, for I should like 
to offer it to any patron of this noble charity of yours 
for about )'ii,ooo, or more, which I would do my best 
to contribute wholly, or largely, or at least partially, to 
the cause of the Allies now fighting the battles of Liberty, 
Equality, and Fraternity. 

With every good wish, Mr. Editor, for your success 
in an enterprise which must remain eclipsed by that 
which I have been fondly celebrating, I am 
Cordially yours, 

William Dean Howells. 



28 



BAZAAR DAILY 



BAZAAR DAILY 

Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
Editor, ARLO BATES 

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 

William Dean Howells 
Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 

Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 

The Daily isj^sued daily for the ten week-days of the AlHed 
Bazaar in Bostoiy Subscriptions, including postage, $1..50, may be 
sent to the Editof, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
at the Bazaar. /Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
taken at the biSoth. 



a thousand per cent of his original expenditure. Would 
that this sort of thing could obtain here! 



e biSi 



COPYRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES./bOSTON, MASS. 



Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 

At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band, Donald 
Sawyer and Miss Polly Prior from 4 to 6 p.m. 

In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
new and wonderful war pictures. 

Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of James 
Kaye of WoUaston Golf Club. 



Paul Revere Hall, Serbian-Armenian. 3 to 4. — A-Ia- 
dame Zabel Panosian, lyric soprano; Hawaiian Band. 

4.30 to 5.30. — Miss Elsie DeWolfe will tell of the 
miracles performed by the doctors in treating the soldiers 
who have been burned by gases — Stereopticon Pictures. 

8 to 9. — Lansing Orchestra — mandolins, banjos, and 
guitars. 

9.15. — Miss DeWolfe will tell of the miracles per- 
formed by the doctors in treating the soldiers who have 
been burned by gases — Stereopticon Pictures. 

9.30, Main Hall. — Mr. A. Chah Mooradian with Choral 
Society. 

The Editor regrets that he received the notice of 
the delightful work of the Lithuanians at the Thistle 
and Shamrock too late for insertion in yesterday's paper. 
The people of this nationality are doing their bit for 
the Bazaar most effectively and effectually. 



The diminutive size of the booth of the Daily and the 
press of business there have made it necessary to transfer 
the sale of the artist's proofs and original drawings of 
Baron Huard to the Atelier, Booth 25. It is to be hoped 
that the large number of other attractions there will not 
cause these admirable pictures to be overlooked. The 
delightful humor of the French soldier has never been 
better put on paper than by Baron Huard, and a set 
of the proofs or one of the originals would make a wonder- 
fully fine Christmas gift. 



The four large figures in the Main Hall by John F. 
Paramino make a decoration hardly to be excelled in 
appropriateness or in effectiveness. 



Mrs. Eleanor H. Porter, author of "PoUyanna," 
will assist at the Book Booth on Thursday afternoon. 



The effective way of raising money for the Bazaar, 
could one but devise the practical method of applying it, 
would be the principle of the plumber's candle. The 
plumber buys a candle for five cents or less. It is carried 
to every job, and at a few of them it is lighted. Whether 
it is used or not, it is charged in every bill for about three 
times its cost, and often a single candle will go through 
scores of jobs. In the end the thrifty plumber nets about 



Never has there been a time when were more poign- 
antly applicable the lines of George Eliot: 

The greatest gift a hero leaves mankind 
Is to have been a hero. Say we fail! 
We feed the high tradition of our race. 
And leave our spirit in our children's breast. 

No man has served his kind more nobly than he who has 
fed "the high tradition of our race" that mankind has 
still something worth dying for; and nothing calls for 
more fervent gratitude than the fact that no man has 
served it more effectively or more abidingly. 



The young Americans who have been killed fighting 
abroad did not give their lives simply for the cause to 
which they had joined themselves. However great may 
have been the value of their services to the Allies, the good 
they have done unconsciously in this country has been 
greater. They "fed the high tradition of the race," and 
impressed upon the youth of the United States the 
nobility of death met in battle for the right and for ideals. 
Their memory may well be honored abroad; here we owe 
to it something which hardly falls short of reverence. 



One of the great functions of the Bazaar is to lighten 
the annual strain which is imposed upon the brain in the 
selection of Christmas gifts. The proper, and no less 
the knowing, attitude for a visitor to take in going about 
is that of being on the watch for things which will be 
pleasing and appropriate for the different friends and 
relatives to be remembered. With list in hand, a lady 
should pass from booth to booth, saying in her mind, 
"There is the very thing for Rosa; John would be de- 
lighted with this; over on that table 's just what I wanted 
for Jane." Or, if the visitor is of the helpless sex, and 
unable to trust to his own unaided taste and judgment, 
he may ask assistance from the ladies in charge. What 
woman, and least of all what young woman, could fail 
to be moved to do her best for the ingenuous swain who 
blushingly falters out: "Could you tell me what a young 
lady would like to have as a Christmas present.^" Her 
warmest sympathies would be aroused, and the swain 
might be sure for once of making a wise choice, and 
scoring heavily with the girl of his heart. The Bazaar 
is to be regarded as the headquarters of Santa Claus, 
and it is to be patronized accordingly. 



The Editor's Callers. 

Candida regarded the Editor thoughtfully for a time 
after the first talk about the weather and the Bazaar had 
been accomplished. It was evident that she had some- 
thing on her mind. 

"If I ever ask your advice," she observed, "it is always 
so hard when it comes that I can't follow it." 

"Why ask it then.?" 

"I suppose," she returned, smiling, "that I am always 
hoping that you will do better. At least I can't seem to 
help it." 

"The fact is, my dear Candida," observed the Editor, 
"that your instinct as a woman drives you to trying over 
and over to see if you cannot coerce me into saying what 
you wish instead of what I think." 

"If you were really polite," she threw back, "that's 
what you would do." 

"We might not agree on our definition of politeness," 
was his comment. "Few people ever do agree on a 
definition. What is the complication to-day.?" 



BAZAAR DAILY 



29 



Candida twisted her muff, and knitted her smootli brow. 

"Oh, such a horrid thing has happened; and I don't 
see what I am to do about it." 

"That is apt to mean with a mere man that he knows 
perfectly well what he ought to do, and wishes to shirk it." 

Candida looked at him firmly. 

"If you begin," she said, "by pelting me with epi- 
grammatic statements like that, I will not tell you a 
word." 

"That would be a thousand pities, for you came ex- 
pressly to tell me, and I am consumed with curiosity to 
hear." 

"Well, at least save your moral reflections till }'ou've 
heard. You see, it is this way." 

She paused, and teased her unfortunate muff more 
vigorously than ever. The Editor leaned forward, and 
with a murmured excuse took it gently away and laid 
it on the top of his desk. 

"Now fold your hands like a good child," he directed, 
"and say your piece straight away." 

She smiled and obeyed him, but she looked troubled. 

"You know that white house with the latticed fence 
and the big buttonwood trees just down the street from 
our house in Brookline. You wouldn't know the people 
that live there. They came from the West a couple of 
years ago. There's a daughter, rather a striking-looking 
girl. She caught my beloved Persian cat and had it 
sent home, and then I thanked her; and we spoke on 
the street, and then we exchanged calls. She's younger 
than I am, and ever so much prettier." 

"Consider that I've thrown in the compliment called 
for by that remark," the Editor interpolated, "and go 
right on." 

She gave him a little troubled smile. 

"I've never seen much of her. Once in a while I met 
her on the street or in the electrics. The truth is, I 
didn't care much about her, and nobody seemed to 
know anything about the family." 

"I'd trust your instincts," the Editor commented as 
she paused, "even without that social consideration." 

"Would you.-"' she asked rather eagerly, and ignoring 
the little fling at social conventions. "I think some- 
times I'm too apt to take prejudices. Anyway, I haven't 
anything — at least, I hadn't anything against her. Now 
I am terribly upset." 

"What has happened?" 

"Oh, it is horrid!" Candida burst out with unexpected 
vehemence. "I don't know what right people have to 
get you all roused up!" 

The Editor gave a little explosive laugh. 

"It is generally the last thing they intend to do or wish 
to do," he said. "But get on. You have been doing 
magnificently, but my curiosity is heated to white heat." 

"Well, a couple of weeks ago I received a bill from 
Henderson & Wannemaker, where I never traded in my 
life. It was for gloves and things, and a $35 silk sweater. 
Of course I went in to ask about it. I will say they were 
very nice. A girl had come in with my card, and ordered 
the things. She said she was going to New York that 
afternoon, so she would take the goods with her, but she 
gave them two or three hours to look her up, because she 
had no account. She went off to do errands or some- 
thing. When she came back, they said it was all right, 
and off she went with the things she'd bought, leaving 
them charged to me." 

"The firm seems very easily caught by a very old 
trick," the Editor observed dispassionately. 

"She's pretty," Candida responded simply. "I told 
you she was; and of course they knew about our family. 
When they saw me, they said at once that I was not the 
one who bought the things." 



"Your method of narration leaves something to be 
desired," the Editor said. "Who is pretty.? You have 
not said that your neighbor had anything to do with the 
theft." 

"But why," demanded Candida, "did you suppose I 
told you about her.'' Of course it was she." 

"How did you discover it?" 

"They described her, in the first place, and she is easily 
identified. Then they showed me a sweater like the one 
she bought. They had had only two made, after a special 
pattern, and she took that one because it was unusual. 
Yesterday it was just like a detective novel. I was 
walking home, and there she was by her gate. She 
spoke to me, and her coat was open, and there was the 
sweater. It was unmistakable." 

The Editor regarded his visitor closely. 

"Candida," he said, "why do you pretend to yourself 
that you come to ask me what you ought to do? You 
know you really came in the hope that I would tell you 
that you needn't do it. No wonder you find my advice 
hard when you come here like that, just to get an excuse 
from some obvious duty." 

"But how can I go to Henderson & Wannemaker," 
Candida burst out in vehement self-betrayal, "and tell 
them that she is a thief? Why, I've called on her!" 

"That should, of course, render her immune from the 
consequences of a criminal action," the Editor remarked 
with dispassionate smoothness; "but in a world imper- 
fectly ordered it is doubtful if it will." 

Candida flushed, and looked as if on the verge of tears. 

"Don't be hateful," she begged plaintively. "I'm 
in real trouble. I thought she was respectable." 

"Of course," he said sympathetically. "I'm really 
very sorry for your fix. In any bother in this queer 
world, the innocent always suffer more than the guilty. 
It is part of the price they pay for being innocent. It is 
horrid, of course; but consider a little. Has anybody 
paid for those goods?" 

"No. The manager said it was their mistake, and 
they must bear the loss. They were very civil." 

"And you consider the possibility of repaying their 
civility by becoming accessory to the theft of their prop- 
erty? " 

"I don't consider anything of the sort! Oh, you are 
cruel! I'm not to blame." 

"Not yet; but you would not be to blame if you were 
so unfortunate as to discover that some one you know had 
committed murder. The law would make things most 
unpleasant fdr you just the same, if you concealed your 
knowledge." 

"But that, of course, is different." 

"In principle or in degree?" the Editor demanded very 
gently. 

Candida regarded him wistfully for a moment in 
silence. Then she rose and retrieved her muff. 

"I might have known what you would say," she de- 
clared, evidently more in sorrow than in anger. 

"You did know," he responded, facing her bravely. 
"You knew perfectly well that we all have duties to the 
community and to our neighbors, not to speak of our- 
selves; and that the fact that they are disagreeable does 
not make them any the less duties." 

"Of course I know it. That's the hateful part of it. 
I wish I didn't know; and I hoped you'd say I was a fool 
to interfere. I wish I hadn't come!" 

"What earthly difference did your coming make?" 
he asked, smiling, and holding out his hand. "You know 
you had your conscience with you when you came." 



He who follows goose-steps is 
lead into foul and miry places. 



likely to find that they 



30 



BAZAAR DAILY 



The Burrowers. 

In the fire-trench — or perhaps it would be more correct 
to call it the water-trench — life may be short, and" is sel- 
dom merry; but it is not often dull. For one thing, we 
are never idle. 

A Boche trench-mortar knocks down several yards of 
your parapet. Straightway your machine-gunners are 
called up, to cover the gap until darkness falls and the 
gaping wound can be stanched with fresh sandbags. A 
mine has been exploded upon your front, leaving a crater 
into which predatory Bodies will certainly creep at night. 
You summon a posse of bombers to occupy the cavity and 
discourage any such enterprise. The heavens open, and 
there is a sudden deluge. Immediately it is a case of all 
hands to the trench-pump! A better plan, if you have the 
advantage of ground, is to cut a culvert under the parapet 
and pass the inundation on to a more deserving quarter. 
In any case you need never lack healthful exercise. 

While upon the subject of mines, we may note that 
this branch of military industry has expanded of late to 
most unpleasant dimensions. The Boche began it, of 
course, — he always initiates these undesirable pastimes, — 
and now we have followed his lead and caught him up. 

To the ordinary mortal, to become a blind groper amid 
the dark places of the earth, in search of a foe whom it is 
almost certain death to encounter there, seems perhaps 
the most idiotic of all the idiotic careers open to those who 
are idiotic enough to engage in modern warfare. How- 
ever, many of us are as much at home below ground as 
above it. In most peaceful times we were accustomed 
to spend eight hours a day there, lying up against the 
"face" in a tunnel perhaps four feet high, and wielding 
a pick in an attitude which would have convulsed any 
ordinary man with cramp. But there are few ordinary- 
men in" K(i)." There is never any difficulty in obtain- 
ing volunteers for the Tunnelling Company. 

So far as the amateur can penetrate its mysteries, min- 
ing, viewed under our present heading, — namely. Winter 
Sports,^ofl[ers the following advantages to its participants : 

(i) In winter it is much warmer below the earth than 
upon its surface, and Thomas Atkins is the most con- 
firmed "frowster" in the world. 

(2) Critics seldom descend into mines. 

(3) There is extra pay. 

The disadvantages are so obvious that they need not 
be enumerated here. 

In these trenches we have been engaged upon a very 
pretty game of subterranean chess for some weeks past, 
and we are very much on our mettle. We have some 
small leeway to make up. When we took over these 
trenches, a German mine, wh'ich had been maturing 
(apparently unheeded) during the tenancy of our pred- 
ecessors, was exploded two days after our arrival, in- 
flicting heavy casualties upon "D" Company. Curiously 
enough, the damage to the trench was comparatively 
slight; but the tremendous shock of the explosion killed 
more than one man by concussion, and brought down the 
roofs of several dugouts upon their sleeping occupants. 
All together it was a sad business, and the Battalion swore 
to be avenged. 

So they called upon Lieutenant Duff-Bertram — 
usually called Bertie the Badger, in reference to his rodent 
disposition — to make the first move in the return match. 
So Bertie and his troglodyte assistants sank a shaft in a 
retired spot of their own selecting, and proceeded to 
burrow forward toward the Boche lines. 

After certain days Bertie presented himself, covered 
with clay, before Colonel Kemp, and made a report. 

Colonel Kemp considered. 

"You say you can hear the enemy working.?" he said. 



"Yi 

"N 



es, sir. 
ear.?" 



"Pretty near, sir." 

"How near.?" 

"A few yards." 

"What do you propose to do.?" 

Bertie the Badger — in private life a consulting mining 
engineer with a beautiful office in Victoria Street and a 
nice taste in spats — scratched an earthy nose with a 
muddy forefinger. 

"I think they are making a defensive gallery, sir," 
he announced. 

"Let us have your statement in the simplest possible 
language, please," said Colonel Kemp. "Some of my 
young officers," he added rather ingeniously, "are not 
very expert in these matters." 

Bertie the Badger thereupon expounded the situation 
with solemn relish. By a defensive gallery, it appeared 
that he meant a lateral tunnel running parallel with the 
trench-line, in such a manner as to intercept any tunnel 
pushed out b}^ the British miners. 

"And what do you suggest doing to this Piccadilly 
Tube of theirs.?" inquired the Colonel. 

"I could dig forward and break into it, sir," suggested 
Bertie. 

"There seems a move in the right direction," said the 
Colonel. "But won't the Boche try to prevent you.?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"How.?" 

"He will wait until the head of my tunnel gets near 
enough, and then blow it in." 

"That would be very tiresome of him. 



alternatives are open to you 



What other 
replied Bertie, 



"I could get as near as possible, sir,' 
calmly, "and then blow up his gallery." 

"That sounds better. Well, exercise your own discre- 
tion, and don't get blown up unless you particularly 
want to. And, above all, be quite sure that while you are 
amusing yourself with the Piccadilly Tube, the wily 
Boche isn't burrowing past you, and under my parapet, 
by the Bakerloo! Good luck! Report any fresh develop- 
ment at once." 

So Bertie the Badger returned once more to his native 
element, and proceeded to exercise his discretion. This 
took the form of continuing his aggressive tunnel in the 
direction of the Boche defensive gallery. Next morning, 
encouraged by the absolute silence of the enemy's miners, 
he made a farther and final push, which actually landed 
him in the Piccadilly Tube itself. 

"This is a rum go, Howie!" he observed in a low voice 
to his corporal. "A long, beautiful gallery, five by four, 
lined with wood, electrically lighted, with every modern 
convenience — and not a Boche in it." 

"Varra bad discipline, sir!" replied Corporal Howie, 
severely. 



"Are you sure it isn't a trap 



"It may be, sir, but I doot the oversman is awa' to 
his dinner, and the men are back in the shaft, doing 
naething." Corporal Howie had been an "oversman" 
himself, and knew something of subterranean labor 
problems. 

"Well, if you are right, the Boche must be getting 
demoralized. It is not likely for him to present us with 
openings like this. However, the first thing to do is to 
distribute a few souvenirs along the gallery. Pass the 
word back for the stuff. Meanwhile I shall endeavor to 
test your theory about the oversman's dinner-hour. I 
am going to creep along and have a look at the Boche 
entrance to the Tube. It's down there at the south end, I 
think. I can see a break in the wood lining. If you hear 
any shooting, you will know that the dinner-hour is over!" 



BAZAAR DAILY 



31 



At the end ot half an hour tlie Piccadilly Tube was 
lined sufficiently with explosive material — securely 
rammed and tamped — to ensure the permanent closing 
of the line. Still no Boche had been seen or heard. 

"Now, Howie," said Bertie the Badger, fingering the 
fuse, "what about it.'" 

"About what, sirr.?" inquired Howie, who was not 
quite au fait with current catch-phrases. 

"Are we going to touch oS all this stuflf now, and clear 
out, or are we going to wait and see.?" 

"I would like fine — " began the Corporal, wistfully. 

"So would I," said Bertie. "Tell the men to get 
back and out; and you and I will hold on until the guests 
return from the banquet." 

" Varra good, sirr." 

For another half-hour the pa^r waited — Bertie the 
Badger like a dog in its kennel, with his head protruding 
into the hostile gallery, while his faithful henchman 
crouched close behind him. Deathly stillness reigned, 
relieved only by an occasional thud, as a shell or trench- 
mortar bomb exploded upon the ground above their 
heads. 

"I'm going to have another look round the corner," 
said Bertie, at last. "Hold on to the fuse." 

He handed the end of the fuse to his subordinate, 
and having wormed his way out of the tunnel proceeded 
cautiously on all fours along the gallery. On his way 
he passed the electric light. He twisted off the bulb 
and crawled on in the darkness. 

Feeling his way by the east wall of the gallery, he came 
presently to the break in the woodwork. Very slowly, 
lying flat on his stomach now, he wriggled forward until 
his head came opposite the opening. A low passage 
ran away to his left, obviously leading back to the Boche 
trenches. Three yards from the entrance the passage 
bent sharply to the right, thus interrupting the line of 
sight. 

"There's a light burning just around that bend," 
said Bertie the Badger to himself. "I wonder if it 
would be rash to go on and have a look at it." 

He was still straining at his gnat, when suddenly his 
elbows encountered a shovel which was leaning against 
the wall of the gallery. It tumbled down with a clatter 
almost stunning. Next moment a hand came around the 
bend of the tunnel and fired a revolver almost in the 
explorer's face. 

Another shot rang out directly after. 

The devoted Howie, hastening to the rescue, collided 
sharply with a solid body crawling toward him in the 
darkness. 

"Curse you, Howie," said the voice of Bertie the 
Badger, with refreshing earnestness. "Get back out of 
this! Where's your fuse.'" 

The pair scrambled back into their own tunnel and 
the end of the fuse was soon recovered. Almost in- 
stantaneously three more revolver-shots rang out. . 

"I thought I had fixed that Boche," murmured Bertie, 
in a disappointed voice. "I heard him grunt when my 
bullet hit him. Perhaps this is another one — or several. 
Keep back in the tunnel, Howie, confound you, and 
don't breathe up my sleeve! They are firing straight 
along the gallery now. I will return the compliment. 
Ouch!" 

"What's the matter, sirr?" inquired the anxious voice 
of Howie, as his officer, who had tried to fire round the 
corner with his left hand, gave a sudden exclamation and 
rolled over upon his side. 

"I must have been hit the first time," he explained. 
"Collar-bone, I think. I didn't know, till I rested my 
weight on my left elbow. Howie, I am going to exercise 
my discretion again. Somebody in this gallery is going 



to be blown up presently, and if you and I don't get a 
move on p. d. q. it will be us! Give me the fuse-lighter, 
and wait for me at the foot of the shaft. Quick!" 

\'ery reluctantly the Corporal obeyed. However, he 
was in due course joined at the foot of the shaft by 
Bertie the Badger, groaning profanely; and the pair 
made their way to the upper regions with all possible 
speed. After a short interval a sudden rumbling, followed 
by a heavy explosion, announced that the fuse had done 
its work, and that the Piccadilly Tube, the fruit of many 
toilsome weeks of Boche calculation and labor, had 
been permanently closed to traffic of all descriptions. 

Bertie the Badger received a Military Cross, and 
his abetter the D. C. M. 

Ian Hay. 



Fifty Doggerel Charades. 

XVII. 
Who chooses for my whole a knave 

Is sure my first; and for himself 
Does second woe till he must needs 

Sadly my third, a hapless elf. 
At the first step in wisdom's ways 

My fourth stands clear before all 
Ne'er with the base first him have v, 

But still to fifth the fool be wise. 



eyes; 
hole, 



XVIII. 

To save his first 

From doom accurst, 
My third across my fourth did second; 

But he, betrayed, 

VV'as soon waylaid, 
Since his fell foe with whole had reckoned. 

XIX. 

Dark, sparkling, from the depth of earth 
My first is digged, and after clings 

To beauty's neck; or, taking birth 
Of water, in my second springs. 

Cast in the sea, down sinks my whole, 
Nor woman's second knows me more; 

Over it long the green waves roll. 
Nor second gilds it on the shore. 

XX. 

The actor, drunk with self-conceit, 
With third would groundlings stir; 

My shrinking whole is at his feet, — 
He gives no first for her. 

I and my second see the show 

With weariness and scorn; 
-Actor and whole, full well we know. 

For art were never born. 

XXI. 

Naught ever can my first without my second; 
My whole as reason feminine is reckoned. 

XXII. 
Half dead my first; my next half living; 
Who does my third needs much forgiving; 
But wins it not if, like my whole. 
The error he repeats, as, on my soul. 
My fourth is like my third in dole. 

XXIII. 
My first times first my fourth would be; 
Halve it, and you my second see. 
My third one seventh of my fourth; 
My whole the test of highest worth. 

XXIV. 
"What? Second first.'" fair Kittie cried. 
"Then who would whole for me provide.'" 



A youth who went out in a yacht 

Said he found home the pleasantest spot; 

For his stomach, he said. 

Climbed up into his head. 
Though he begged and implored it would not. 



32 



BAZAAR DAILY 



THE BOSTON MOTHLR G005L. 



IV. 

THE 5TATUL5. 

The Maid in the Mist 

5he has worn out her wrist 

Holding her petticoats high ; 

5oon it will be shocking 

To see folk come flocking 

When she's dropped them, and lets them 



lie! 



The angel on the monument 
For Crispus Attucks named. 

Frantic, on its escape is bent; 
For which it can't be blamed. 



Sops and sugar candy. 
Dancing-master handy, 
Franklin by the City Hall 
With his legs so bandy. 
Like a jack-a-dandy. 



Science and Art their blankets took. 
And they took thick blankets too; 

And sat down each in a granite nook. 
On the Library steps in view. 



cry 



"But why those weighty blankets?" 

The passers great and small. 
Said they: "To keep our scalp-locks dry, 

If rain should chance to fall." 



"Come buy! Come buy!" calls Phillips, 
To passers on Boylston Street. 

"Buy chains French-made, 

For a better trade 
You never may chance to meet." 



If the eagle on the tooth-pick, 
Down in Post Office Square 

Changed places with the eagle 
On the Beacon,— ! declare. 

That were a weird phenomenon 
To make good people stare. 



Was he in truth excusable 
Who made the Banks of brass? 

A sarcasm so obvious 
Could not unnoticed pass. 



In his chair on the Avenue Garrison sits, 
While many a sparrow around him flits; 
And the more they twitter, the more frets he. 
Who talked through life incessantly. 
That now forever he dumb must be. 



Leif Lricson, dressed for a fancy ball. 
Is trying on a pose, his face turned west. 

Which he believes, if taken in the hall. 
Will show his hired costume at its best. 

While the telescoped boat down under his feet 

Shows how well he is able to make both ends 
meet. 



The Good Samaritan means well. 

First aid for iniured giving; 
But the result one hates to tell, 

if the hurt man were living. 
Since he has had no proper training. 
Wide open he the wound is straining. 



Says Hamilton: "This place is cold. 
And much exposed to storm. 

So I have brought my bedclothes here. 
To keep me rear-ly warm. 

For much my dignity 't would tease. 

To have my granite nostrils sneeze." 



Called the Devens statue across to the Banks: 
"There's little in ugliness us outranks." 
Quick back the cheerful answer came: 
"No matter; we got here just the same!" 



Oh, the sculptors tell their children. 

If they're very, very bad. 
They had better mend their manners 

Or their future will be sad. 
They may grow up to be pirates. 

Thieves, or any kind of crooks; 
Or, — far worse! — may make a statue 

Bad as that of Phillips Brooks. 



John Glover, enraged to the tips of his toeses, 
For a movie-film up on the Avenue poses; 
In spite of his cannon and bullets of lead. 
Some rascaf has stolen the hat from his head! 



Gay go up and sad go down, — 
Viewing the statues of Boston town: 
Statues of marble and bronze and lead, — 
Would that the most were of snow instead! 



Questions for Discussion at tlie Women's Clubs. 

How far is a hired cook morally responsible for the 
temper of the family for which she works.' 

If property has been bequeathed to twins, can it 
properly be inherited by a two-headed child.' 

VVould the world be better if the men had all been 
born women and the women all born men ? 

If women had the vote, would hens crow, and what 
would be the probable increase in double-yolked eggs.'' 

If John Keats had been Bernard Shaw, would he have 
written "Pilgrim's Progress".' 

If Eve had had the right to vote, would it have pre- 
vented the Fall of A4an.' 

How far can the philosophy of the Autocrat of the 
Breakfast Table be applied to the use of cereals.' 

If a unicorn were impaled on the two horns of a dilem- 
ma, where would be the point of its one horn, and would 
it settle the question.' 

How far would Cleopatra have been an ideal President 
for a woman's college.' 

If Queen Elizabeth had married Guy .Fawkes, would 
she have given Ireland Home Rule.' 

If you were in solitary confinement, without books, 
and were allowed to have the advertisements of one 
patent medicine to read, what would be your choice.' 



3.B:nr^'-^:'> 



DEC I5iyl6 




AZAAR DAILY 



10 Cents 



BOSTON, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1916 



No. 5 



/ 



P^>U>;^'-:':kk-^):::;!^i''^ 



/ 




'The Kaiserbloom " : an ideal type of super-man, 



34 



BAZAAR DAILY 



The Zeppelin. 

[From "The Cause: Poems of the War," to appear later; by the kind per- 
mission of Houghton Mifflin Company.] 

Guns! far and near 
Quick, sudden, angry, 
They startle the still street. 
Upturned faces appear, 
Doors open on darkness. 
There is a hurrying of feet. 

And whirled athwart gloom 

White fingers of alarm 

Point at last there 

Where illumined and dumb 

.\ shape suspended 

Hovers, a demon of the starry air! 

Strange and cold as a dream 



Of i 



ster fan 



It charms like a snake, 
Poised deadly in the gleam, 
While bright e.xplosions 
Leap up to it, and break. 

Is it terror you seek 
Toe.xultin.' Know then 
Hearts are here 
That the plunging beak 
Of night-winged murder 
Strikes not with fear 

So much as it stings 
To a deep elation 
And a quivering pride 
That at last the hour brings 
For them, too, the danger 
Of those who died. 

Of those who yet fight. 

Spending for each of us 

Their glorious blood 

In the foreign night, — 

That now we are neared to them 

Thank we God. 

Laurence Binyon. 



The Daughter of Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas. 

(Jilhouf:li litis narrative is in the form oj Jiction, the events took place in the 
summer oj iQoy in Syria practically as told.) 

I. 

It was the schoolmaster, the fiki, of the small village 
in the Syrian hills where I was stationed who introduced 
me to the situation. He was an agreeable young Moslem, 
in a silk robe of narrow green and yellow stripes, and at 
his first call he told me he should next day close the 
school at the mosque for lack of funds. In the interests 
of the Expedition that I represented, I undertook the 
modest napoleon a month required for its continuance, 
and the fikt became my devoted friend. At one of his 
afternoon visits he spoke of Sheikh Hassan Osman, and 
that gentleman's matrimonial prospects. We sat drink- 
ing tea in the courtyard of the abandoned mission-church 
in which I was camped, ragged Bishara, stupidest of ser- 
vants, in attendance, and oily Franziz of Nazareth keep- 
ing in earshot when he could. 

"Oh, beautiful tea," murmured the schoolmaster. 
"Dream-worthy tea; it is even better than that of Sheikh 
Hassan!" 

"Nay, O Pilgrim," I answered in the approved fashion, 
"it is but dust from the bazaars of Russia; your kindness 
commends it. Who travels, fares plainly; and I have 
drank the tea of Sheikh Hassan, fragrant with freshly 
steeped mint. It was to this as sun to moon. It was 
yesterday I went to the Sheikh about his land." 

"Under Allah's will," said my visitor, "he will let you 
dig on it. But he is an old one, and full of trouble about 
a matter which is the talk of the village." 

"Of what matter is the talk.?" 



"Y'd Saldm,'' said Hajji Hamed, setting down his cup 
in well-feigned surprise, "has it not blown this way."" 
Thus it is: desire has come upon Sheikh Hassan, so that 
he neither eats nor sleeps, — a desire for the daughter of 
Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas." 

My friend the schoolmaster, skilled in three modes of 
calligraphy, a Hajji, and one who knew the Quran by 
heart, was something of a gossip, and a tale lost nothing 
from his telling. Not two hours before I had seen the 
man of whom he spoke rating the harvesters in one of 
his barley-fields in a voice quavering but unceasing, and 
certainly anything but love-lorn. 

"Like a fire," ran on the Hajji with gusto, "desire con- 
sumes the marrow of his bones!" 

I expressed interest, but inwardly I doubted both the 
marrow and the fire. I thought it improbable that the 
aged bones of Sheikh Hassan were consumed by anything 
more romantic than rheumatism. 

"The word goes that she is a pearl among maidens," 
went on my friend; "but to talk of that is shameless. 
Her father, Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas, is eager to 
give her to one so rich and of such piety; but Abdul 
Ahmed spoke openly against it, reviling Sheikh Hassan 
in the shop, so that all the young lack-lands were laughing 
and the elders put to shame." 

"If Allah wills," I said piously, "He will make an end. 
Does Abdul Ahmed place his desires against those of the 
Sheikh.?" 

"Like a fire! and he follows Sheikh Hassan a-field 
with his gun, and threatens him, and sets his men at 
naught. And a-whiles the Sheikh feels chill with this 
trouble and his years; and a-whiles Ibrahim the Father 
of Nuwas and his brother and his cousins stay him, and 
comfort him, and say: 'How are you, Sheikh, to yield 
to such a one.? Is he not a dog, the son of a dog, the 
father of a dead donkey.? Is it Sheikh Hassan that shrinks 
before the lack-land, a thing-not-to-be-named?' Thus 
the Sheikh is now hot, and now again he is cold." 

Hajji Hamed told the tale thrice with subtle changes 
before he finished his call. I went down the hillside that 
evening to the shop, and as I left after purchasing some 
Samsun tobacco, I noticed a young man in a yellow jacket, 
rather ragged, with a short gun across his knees, squatting 
just on the edge of the light from the doorway. An 
older man was, with a wealth of opprobrious words, 
denouncing him, and waving his hands in energetic 
gesticulation. The young man, without a trace of 
feeling on his heavy, dogged face, chewed a straw without 
appearing to listen. 

"That," said my boy Bishara, " is Abdul Ahmed, called 
Landless." 

"And who sits beside him.?" I asked, catching sight of 
a second squatting figure — this one wholly in the shadow. 

"Nam?" responded Bishara; "oh, that is Nuwas, the 
son of Ibrahim. He is a blockhead even as I am, 
Master. He is the particular friend of Abdul Ahmed." 

II. 

When Bishara brought next morning the water for 
my bath his eyes were big with news. After the rubber 
tub had been turned into an aquarium for the various 
monsters that sweetened our well, I lingered a moment 
to finish my cigarette. 

"Is there news, O Father of Stupidity.?" I asked. 

"Nam? Aye, there is news! The village talks of noth- 
ing else! my Master, there is an uproar!" 

I waited in silence, looking across the valley through 
the iron-barred window. I knew this to be the short cut 
to getting Bishara to facts. 

"An uproar, sir!" repeated the fumble-witted one. 

I threw away the butt of my cigarette and rose. 



BAZAAR DAILY 



35 



"O my Master!" exclaimed Bishara, with a rush, 
"there is an uproar because Abdul Ahmed has girdled 
with fire, so that they are dead for the ages, five of the 
olive-trees of Sheikh Hassan, — five of the best, between 
moon-set and dawn; and Abdul Ahmed has fled, and 
Sheikh has turned cursing on Ibrahim the Father of 
Nuwas; and he and his kin have sworn to beat Abdul 
Ahmed, only he is not presently to be found." 

"Abdul Ahmed has begotten a folly," said I. "Go 
and get breakfast." 

At three that afternoon I sat down to write to the 
agent that the Expedition would purchase the mission 
church. It had been for sale since the failure of the 
mission half a dozen years before, and while it was not 
quite what we wished, it had the strong point of "ex- 
territoriality." Once over the threshold, we were on Eng- 
lish ground. I finished my letter, and as it was not 
cool enough for riding, I then went to my room to 
change. Except for the buzzing of the flies the place was 
very still. From the flat-roofed village a little below 
rose the shrill droning of a woman's voice, blended with 
the ruzz-ruzz-ruzz of a quern. That one sound came up- 
ward with the effect of a single column of wood-smoke 
seen rising from a camp-fire at dawn. I was buckling a 
spur when the afternoon quiet was shattered by a sudden 
clamor on the north side of the mission. A confused 
shouting drew rapidly nearer, swelling in volume. I 
pulled my carbine out of its boot, and, flinging it on the 
cot, went out, calling my men. As I came into the 
court the shouting and yelling were seemingly just in 
front of the mission: howls, shrieks, and curses were 
mingled with the sound of men running, with roars of 
defiance, and — with startling abruptness — the rattling 
crash of stones against our gate. Simultaneously some 
one without began to hammer furiously at the wicket, 
and to shout for admittance. My five men rushed for- 
ward and shot the extra bar. I dove back, seized my 
rifle, and ran to them. Of a truth, things were happen- 
ing, and that with a vengeance. 

"Open, O sir! Open, in the name of Allah!" 

A shower of stones sounded on the wood. 

"Open the wicket," I said to the men, "and stand clear 
of it." 

Old Mohammed the Orderly drew the bolt; there was 
a lull outside. Not without a curious feeling that I was 
making of myself an uncommonly good target, I looked 
out. With his back against the gate, and his flushed 
face level with mine, stood Abdul Ahmed, called the 
Landless. His gun was in his hands, pointing toward a 
half-circle of excited villagers, who, for the most part 
armed with stones, stood in a mass some twenty yards 
away. Some few were provided with guns. I divined 
instantly that Abdul Ahmed and not the mission was the 
object of attack. For me was but one course. I put 
on a rage I did not feel, and shouted with such air of 
authority as I could assume: 

"What sort of a. fantasia is this? Are you people gone 
mad.?" 

For answer came back from the crowd a chorus of 
discordant yells in which I distinguished nothing clearly. 
But at the same time the voice of Abdul Ahmed was 
saying in my ear: 

"By the Bread and the Salt, O sir, let me inside the 
House of the English. I have warmed up Sheikh Hassan 
with a charge of shot, and for this the dog-sons of shame- 
less mothers will slay me. Let me wait but half an hour 
in the House of the English, and a horse will be in the 
valley. Even now one leads him thither." 

I wanted to take him in as one man set upon by many. 
I wanted to take him in because of his good courage. 
I much desired to see what would happen; but I could 



not because I was not my own master. The Expedition's 
interests could not be perilled by being involved in a 
village row. Yet, certainly, on the other hand, the 
villagers, when their anger had cooled, would feel only 
contempt for me if I refused a suppliant. 

"Look, O People of the village," I shouted; "here is 
one who asks for shelter." 

"The gate in his face, the dog without faith!" yelled a 
big peasant. 

"Silence, son of burnt fathers!" I cried in answer. 
"On one condition he enters." 

A wild yell greeted this. I thrust my rifle through the 
wicket. Abdul Ahmed brought his gun to his shoulder, 
and very slowly swept a half-circle with it. Check! 

"Allah will reward the compassionate," he said in a 
cool whisper. "We are fooling them out of time, O sir, 
at the very least." 

"I will take him in if I please," I called. "Who here 
shall dare to forbid me.? But I shall hand him over to 
the men of the Basha at Nablus as soon as may be." 

"The curse of Allah on such hospitality, on its father, 
its mother, and its religion!" said the voice of Abdul 
Ahmed, quietly and bitterly. 

The crowd stirred, some bawling out that they would 
shoot if the gate were opened, others that I should promise 
"on the words of an Englishman" to hold the prisoner. 
Out of the confusion came a stone which banged against 
the wood a handbreadth from my head. That decided 
me. I drew back and slammed the wicket. 
"Open!" I ordered. 

A-Iy men drew the heavy oak bars and looked to their 
arms. At that instant from without sounded a yell that 
must have leaped simultaneously from every throat in the 
crowd. 

Old Mohammed, his big ivory-handled pistol at full 
cock, flung back the gate. He did so just in time for us 
to see the last of the crowd tearing madly down the 
terraced hillside. Among the olive-trees below the 
village, we saw a lithe figure running, ducking, dodging, 
and the whole male population, men, boys, and dogs, 
tearing pell-mell after. Abdul Ahmed had bolted with 
the pursuit at his heels. We watched the chase to the 
bottom of the valley, where for a moment the Landless 
disappeared amOng the olives. It was a fresh wonder to 
see him emerge on horseback! The yell of the villagers 
came to us faintly. We saw him halt, and among them, 
suddenly, the gleam of gun-barrels. Two or three shots 
were fired at the fugitive. He was well out of range, but, 
as if to show that he accepted the compliment in the 
spirit in which it was given, he turned in the saddle and 
fired twice. Then, brandishing his gun above his head, 
he swung round the hill, and disappeared. 

Oric Bates. 

(To be cominued.) 



"Alas! My life is full of woes," 

Wailed Jeremiah Grace; 
"I cannot see my lovely nose, 

It grows so near my face." 
"But when one knows one's nose is there, 

His loving wife replied, 
".\bout one's nose no one should care, 

If friends are satisfied." 



An envious and not over-refined Yale man, somewhat 
far from pleased at the result of a foot-ball match, was 
heard to say, with profane embellishments, that never 
again would he be found in Cambridge, for it was only 
a gob of wheel-grease on the rim of the Hub. 



Cupid's scientific name is Propinquity. 



36 



BAZAAR DAILY 



BAZAAR DAILY 

Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 

Editor, ARLO BATES 

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 

William Dean Howells 
Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 

Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 

Tlie Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the Alhed 
Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
taken at the booth. 

COPYRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 



Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 

At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band, and Madame 
EstrelHta from 4 to 6 p.m. 

In the basement: Pony Circus and Trahied Cockatoo, 
and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
new and wonderful war pictures. 

Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of Matt 
Campbell, Jordan Marsh Company. 

Paul Revere Hall. 2.30. — Miss Elsie DeWolfe will tell 
of the miracles performed by the doctors in treating^ the 
soldiers who have been burned by gases — Stereopticon 
Pictures. 

3 to 4. — Miss June Moody and Miss Lucretia Craig 
in Solo Dances. Hawaiian Band. Madame Estrellita, 
Spanish dances and songs. 

4.30 to 5.30. — Miss Randall and Mr. Joseph Santeley, 
from the Raymond Hitchcock Company, by the courtesy 
of Charles Dillingham. 

8 to 9. — Vaudeville Attractions; Dancers; Miss 
Amelia Burnham, Mr. Leroy Young, Exhibition Dancing; 
Miss Mabelle Patten, Ballet Dancer; The Misses Helen 
Mann and Helen Linnehan, Character Dancing; Misses 
Beatrice Poole and Georgine Moses, Classic Dances; 
Mr. Paul Chute, Unique Solo Dance; Miss Melba 
Proctor, A Dramatic Story Dance of Mrs. Wyman's 
entitled "The Somnambulist"; Spanish Scene and 
Pantomime Dance by Messrs. Herford, Hartwell, Robert 
Grantham, Calbraith Perry, James Kennedy, Paul Jones 
Chute, Misses Florence Barker, Mabelle Patten, Grace 
Parker, Amelia Burnham, Florence Meredith. 

9.15. — Miss Elsie DeWolfe will tell of the miracles 
performed by the doctors in treating the soldiers who 
have been burned by gases — Stereopticon Pictures. 

9.30, Main Hall. — Patriotic Songs, Madame Androva 
and Chorus. 



A Personal Explanation. 

I REGRET exceedingly that there has apparently been 
unreasonable delay in the delivery of a good many 
copies of the Daily. I took beforehand so much pains 
to be sure that this could not happen that I went over 
and stamped, counted, and verified something like three 
thousand wrappers. I took them myself to the pub- 
lisher, and I am absolutely sure of his word when he 
declares that they were properly wrapped, and delivered 
at the post office. I cannot see that any precaution 
has been neglected outside the post office. Over what 
happens afterward I have, unfortunately, no control. 
I am extremely sorry and not without a good deal of 
indignation that the extra pains I took should have been 
thrown away. I can only express to those who suffer, 
my regret; I do not see that anything need be apologized 
for. Arlo Bates. 



To-day is Poland's Day, and at the very name of 

Poland a strong man might well fall to weeping. So 

wonderful is her past, so heart-breaking is her present, 

that humanity should rise up to aid, to succor, and to 
avenge her! 



The Paul Revere House at the Toy Booth, No. i, is 
a wonderfully clever bit of reproduction, and its only 
possible fault is that it is a hundred times too pretty for 
a dolls' house. It was made by Mrs. O. E. Williams, 
and is a miniature replica of the old mansion in North 
Square. Mrs. Revere is providing the historic lantern, 
thus solving an important historic point, and showing 
that the sexton was a mere puppet in the affair. The 
toy is really, besides being a most attractive bit of work, 
a lesson in historic architecture, furniture, and costume. 



The kindnesses which the citizens of one country do to 
those of another in misfortune are often of effect more 
general and more lasting than large political benefits, 
because they appeal to the sentiments of the common 
people. It is notorious that nations, in the great world- 
struggles for self-preservation or self-aggrandizement, 
are likely to have short memories for any sort of benefits 
from the outside; but the relief work done by this country 
in the present war has made its appeal to so many of 
the simple common people of the various countries 
involved, that the good-will engendered must long have 
its effect. Every day the direct influence of the common 
people is stronger in the governments of the world, and 
permanent universal peace will never be possible until 
universal good-will is thoroughly established. Toward 
the establishment of such good-will is this Bazaar working. 



The Boston Mother Goose, which has been ap- 
pearing in the columns of the Daily, is being prepared in 
a neat pamphlet, with introductory verses and a won- 
derfully life-like portrait of the old lady herself. The 
price will be fifty cents a copy, and it is expected that a 
first edition will be on sale to-morrow at the booth. No. 
36, of the paper. 

A MOST interesting item at the booth of the American 
Fund for the French Wounded is a basket of woven wire, 
made by a wounded Annanite soldier from French Indo- 
China, in a hospital in France. It was presented by 
Madame la Generale de Castelnau, and is really a thing 
of beauty. 



Two elderly ladies, beaming benevolence and piety 
through gold-bowed spectacles, were yesterday seen 
listening to the Hawaiian Band with rapt yet critical 
attention. At last one said with a sigh: "It is certainly 
very alluring, Jane; but I don't think it will quite do for 
our missionary meeting. I think it is perhaps a little 
secular." 



Friday is fish day, and at the Blue Cross Booth, No. 
9, will be sold four hundred pounds of dried fish, gift of 
the Gloucester fishermen. 



The Editor's Callers. 

"I dropped in," said Gregory, with a hint of doubt in 
his tone which was evidently not meant to be there, 
"to ask if you didn't want me to write you an article on 
vers libre." 

"That is very easily answered," the Editor responded. 
"No, I don't." 

Although he smiled, the reply was so decided that 
Gregory looked offended. 



BAZAAR DAILY 



37 



"You are curt enough, I hope!'' he exclaimed. "You 
might at least have let me tell you about it." 

"Oh, I want you to tell me about it; only I prefer that 
you shouldn't write it." 

"Why don't you want it?" 

"What in the world do you think my readers care about 
'Mrs libre? Why not offer me a paper on the Bacon- 
Shakespeare madness, or on the miracles of Prester John.'' 
But tell me about it, by all means." 

Gregory looked a little doubtful, but he drew from his 
pocket a book. 

"I found this," he said; "and it seemed to me a chance 
for comparison." 

The Editor bent forward and took from the hand of 
his visitor the little volume bound in faded blue paper, 
and regarded it with a smile. 

"My old friend," was his comment. "I haven't seen a 
copy of 'Infelicia' for years. I fancy even collectors do 
not care anything for the poems of Adah Isaacs Menken 
nowadays. They are like the snows of yester-year, or 
her glorious ride up sham mountains in fleshings, tied 
to a white horse in 'Mazeppa.' Sic transit — if these 
things were ever gloria.'" 

"Then you know it?" Gregory asked. 

The Editor smiled, and began to quote: 
"'Away down in the shadowy depth of the Real 1 once Uved. 
I thought that to seem was to be.' 

We had too much fun with it when I was a college lad 
for me not to remember it." 

"But it's the beginning of vers libre." 

"The beginning!" snorted the Editor. "What about 
'Ossian'? What about lifeless corpses of 'prose poems' 
centuries older? From the time men began to study 
metrical form, the people who could not work in it tried 
to show that it was artificial, and that they could do 
without it." 

"Well, anyway," Gregory persisted, "at least this is 
the beginning of the present craze." 

"Not in the least. Not one of the foolish folk who 
are trying to-day to show themselves independent of 
form ever heard of the Menken. Besides, 'Leaves of 
Grass' was earlier by a dozen years." 

Gregory had by this time a look in which mingled 
grievance and doubt. 

"Well, anyway, I could compare — '' 

"Oh, compare!" interrupted the Editor, impatiently. 
"It would be like comparing one heap of sticks with 
another. A pile of prose lines no more makes a poem 
than a pile of sticks is a tree. Why compare?" 

"I thought your readers — " 

" My readers, if I still had any when you had done 
with them, don't want comparisons of that sort." He 
was turning over the little volume as he spoke, and 
began to read with a smile: 

'"See the poor wounJed snake; how burdened to the ground; 
How it lengthens limberly along the dust. 

Now palpitates into bright rings only to unwind, and reach its bleed- 
ing head up the steep high walls around us.' 

It is much of a muchness with the more recent product," 
he said, "only that in the mid-nineteenth century senti- 
mentality was more the fashion, and now we have what 
it is the misleading fashion to call realism. One was 
as true as the other, neither more nor less. The woods 
were full of 'prose poems' in the eighties, but I doubt 
if one of them is left to-day, even in the refuges for old 
age called anthologies." 

"It is easy stuff to parody," observed Gregory, with 
the air of one who had an example in his pocket. 

"Parody! Anybody could parody it; but the diffi- 
culty is that in the end the original is funnier than the 
parody. I would undertake to put into the manuscript 
of any of these writers pieces that nobody could tell 



from the rest; and that the authors could distinguish 
only by remembering what they had written. There 
is no fun in parodies where things parody themselves." 

"There are plenty of parodies made," suggested 
Gregory. 

''There always have been," the other assented. "I 
remember one that we used to spout in the early seventies. 
It might have been written to-day. 

"'I met a man. VVhere.' 'Twas in the gutter. 
We embraced. 

We at once were friends. Our meeting was a palingenesis of Paradise. 
"Hast thou, oh, hast thou, Philadelphian, 
Eighteen pence?" 

"I have it not," I shrieked; "or — " 
Whom do I love.' 
Whom do I admire? 
Not four lolling in a carriage, but twelve bulging out of a cart.' 

It is all of a piece?" 

"But don't you think there may be something in it?" 

'"There's something in a flying horse,'" quoted the 
Editor. "Yes, there is this in it. Folk who long 
to produce, without having the power to "compass the 
language of art, decide to do without it. The result 
has to be justified, of course, and the natural course is 
-to proclaim — they are generally honest enough about 
it — that old conventions are obsolete. They are always 
novel, because each outbreak is so easily forgotten; 
and they always can defend themselves for the moment 
by calling attention to the fact that many great works 
of art were sneered at in the beginning. It is easy to 
draw the conclusion that anything that is laughed at 
must therefore be great art. It has been done over and 
over again." 

"Do you think that is the whole of it?" Gregory asked. 

"The whole of it? Of course not. The rest of it is 
pretty accurately said in this extract from the criticism 
from the London Athenatim that the publishers have 
put on the cover of 'Infelicia' here." He read from the 
faded blue page a sentence, adroit and acute, from the 
review of more than half a century ago: "The poems 
'show much uncultivated pathos and senseful love 
of nature to have existed in the author's mind.' Un- 
cultivated and senseful, those are the words, my dear 
fellow. That is the rest of it. A good deal of clever- 
ness, a fair amount of fancy, very little imagination, 
and no technique. That seems to me to be about the 
whole of it. I am an old fogy, you know." 

"I wish," observed Gregory, rather wistfully, "that 
you'd let me write about it. I think I could give your 
view." 

"My view?" echoed the Editor, with a laugh. 
"Readers do not care a fig for my view or yours. If 
they bother at all about these constantly appearing 
and as steadily disappearing literary eccentricities, it is 
either to seem to be in the intellectual swim or to amuse 
themselves with novelty. They don't want, views on 
it. As to the writers, they are of the same tribe as 
Browning's young Duke: 

'"So all the old Duke had been, without knowing it, 
This Duke would fain know he was, without being it.' 

Though they take themselves too seriously not to think 
such a verdict cruelly flippant. After all, vers libre 
is an opium-dream of the muse at best." 

"But what about their sense of humor?" Gregory 
asked. 

" Some of them have a sense of humor," was the 
answer; "but how many persons have you ever known 
who could apply it to their own doings? Human vanity 
takes care of that." 

"Well," quoth Gregory, rising and pocketing 'Infe- 
licia,' "you are pretty difficult. Good-by." 

"Perhaps I am," assented the Editor. "Good luck." 



38 



BAZAAR DAILY 



"Old, Unhappy, Far-off Things." 

[The following is practically a literal report of the conversation of Mrs. Robert 
Stone, the wife of President Lincoln's Physician. Mrs. Stone was a- cousin ol 
General Lee, and also of the writer. — Ed.] 

"Yes, my dear, Brandon House is the most beautiful 
place in the world, even now," said the old lady; she was 
beautiful herself, sitting there in her big, shabby house, 
before a table which had more silver on it than food, and 
waited upon by an old, old negro, whose wool was as 
white as the enormous cotton gloves that covered his 
black hands. "Yes, a beautiful house; but 1 wish you 
could have seen it before the war!" she said, sighing. 
"It was almost ruined by the Yankees, inside as well as 
outside. They cut the portraits out of the frames, and 
broke the mirrors — vandals, my dear, vandals! 'Huns,' 
my brother used to call them. But what could you ex- 
pect? The officers were not gentlemen. There were no 
gentlemen above Mason and Dixon's line, — at least," she 
corrected herself, hurriedly, "very few; and your dear 
grandfather can hardly be called a Yankee, because he 
married one of our Southern girls. But as for Brandon, 
if it had not been for my husband's friendship with Mr. 
Lincoln (I suppose I must call it 'friendship,' though at 
the time I wouldn't have believed I should ever use the 
word!), if it hadn't been for their — ah — acquaintance, — 
Brandon would have been burned. When I think of 
that, I can see the finger of God in my Robert's having 
been called in when the President needed a dose of blue 
mass! 

"That is why I have forgiven Lincoln; indeed I have 
even come to quite respect the man, — as one respects 
persons of character in the lower classes. 

"It was curious, considering our connections, Robert's 
happening to be Lincoln's doctor — ... I recollect I 
came downstairs one morning — that was in 1861 — and 
there was your Cousin Robert sitting at the breakfast 
table, looking very much perplexed. 

"'I've had a call, Meg,' he said; 'but I wanted to see 
you about it before I answered it.' 

'"Who's ill?' I asked him. 

'"The call is from the White House,' he said. 

'"The White House!' I said; 'O Rob, you don't 
mean that that man has sent for you?' (I was a Rebel 
in those days, my dear; and I am a Rebel still, though, 
of course, I never let it be seen.) 

"'Yes,' he said; 'I don't know why in the world he 
has done it! He must know who I am. Of course I 
won't go, Meg, if you don't want me to.' 

"'"Want" you to?' I said; 'good heavens, how can 
you think of such a thing? We should be ostracized! 
We haven't a friend who would ever recognize us again 
if you went near him. If Cousin Robert Lee heard of 
it, he would think I had turned traitor!' 

"But just at that minute in came old Dr. Hall; I was 
poorly and. he was looking after me. We loved him, both 
of us. Robert used to roll up pills in his office, before 
he put out his own shingle. 'What's the matter, Bob?' 
the old doctor said. 

"'Well, sir,' said Robert, 'Lincoln has sent for me, and 
I don't know what to do. Of course I shan't go, if it 
will annoy Meg.' 

"'Go?' said Dr. Hall, 'of course you will go! It's the 
opportunity of your life. Go and kill him! Kill him!' 
Dr. Hall always had his joke. 'I'll come along, and hold 
your hat,' he said. 

"'/'// sharpen the knife!' I said. 

"And then Dr. Hall said, 'Ah, well; of course you 
must go, no matter who sends for you. In our profession, 
we can't choose our patients, any more than a minister 
can choose his congregation; — sometimes very big 
scallawags sit in the pews! So you will have to go to 



this man Lincoln, and do the best you can for him. Give 
him a fist full of aloes, with my compliments!' 

"Of course Rob went, — and I was mortified to death! 
But it was that morning's work which kept Brandon 
from being burned. For certainly, in those next four 
years, Lincoln was kind. I have always been just to the 
Yankees; I was just to your worthy grandfather — 
though how one of our girls could have married a North- 
ener! — However, that's neither here nor there. Yes, I 
am willing to admit that Lincoln was kind. I have 
wondered whether he was trying, by being polite to me, 
to ingratiate himself with General Lee, against the time 
Lee should take Washington. But perhaps not. Per- 
haps not. My dear husband said I was suspicious; but 
he loved him, and couldn't see anything wrong with him — 
except, of course, his manners. The poor man had no 
manners. But he was kind. He let me send a messenger 
through the lines every month, with provisions to my 
dear sister's family, and he promised that just as soon as 
it was safe I should have a special guard, and go down 
to Brandon myself. So one morning — Good Friday 
morning — your Cousin Robert came into the breakfast 
room, holding something up in his hand. 

"'Guess what it is,' he said. 

'"You look as pleased as if it was a check for ^100,000, ' 
I told him. 

"'It's better than that!' said he. 'It is the President's 
order for a guard to take you South to-morrow, you and 
some older lady, for of course you could not go alone, — 
with Yankee officers.' 

"Oh, I was so happy! I could hardly breathe I was 
so happy. I was going to see my family again, after these 
long, long years! Of course there were a great many 
things to do; I had to send word to my sister, who was 
to be 'the lady' whom the President's order said I might 
take. That was quite gentlemanly in him, wasn't it? 
Generally the Yankees never protect their women, in 
any way. I must say, my dear, I am a little shocked to 
know that you travelled here, all alone, on the train! 
What was your father thinking of! You say you are over 
thirty? A'ly dear, a female needs the protection of the 
gentlemen of her family — if she is ninety! However, 
times have changed. Well, I had to get my little Vir- 
ginia's spring hat; so I went down town to buy ribbons 
for it, and to get things for the people at home, — such 
sad need in the South — such sad need. I bought some 
hoop-skirts for my sisters, you. may be sure! Well, the 
day passed, and I was just as busy as busy could be, and 
at night I was very tired. But I couldn't go to bed 
before I had trimmed Ginnie's hat, and it was when I 
was tying up the ribbons to put on that little bonnet, 
that suddenly the door-bell rang furiously. There 
seemed to be some discussion at the door, and I went 
out into the hall. I saw two soldiers standing on the 
steps, with flambeaus in their hands, and they were 
talking to Willis; — Willis was a very smart nigger in 
those days," she interrupted herself, looking affectionately 
at the shambling old man with the white wool; "you 
recollect, Willis?" she said, and the darkey touched his 
forelock with his shaking, white-gloved hand. "The 
soldiers saw me, and one of them pushed poor W^illis 
aside; — you recollect, Willis.'' — and called out to me, 
'The doctor! The doctor! Where is he?' 

"'My husband is not at home,' I said. 

'"We must have him at once!' the man said. He was 
panting, and his hands were trembling so that the flam- 
beau shook, and the shadows lurched about. And I 
said, 'What on earth is the matter?' 

"'Good God, madam,' he said, 'Mr. Seward's throat 
has been cut from ear to ear; we've come for the doctor!' 

"I cried out with horror, and told them to run up the 



BAZAAR DAILY 



39 



street for Dr. Hall, and if they couldn't find him, to come 
back, because I knew Rob might come in any minute. 
Then I went upstairs again, but, oh, it seemed to me as 
if there were spots of blood all over that heap of ribbons 
on the table! I couldn't trim Ginnie's hat; and couldn't 
even stay in the house by myself! I went out into our 
garden, and opened the little door in the garden wall be- 
tween our house and Rob's mother's house, and ran into 
her parlor. I remember she was standing before her 
musical glasses — you see that case over there against the 
wall.' The musical glasses are in it. She always played 
a little air before she went to bed; and she was playing 
^Believe me if all those endearing young charms^ — I've 
never heard it since without a shudder! Of course I 
burst out about Seward's assassination, but while 1 was 
telling her, her door-bell rang! and rang! and rang! and I 
ran out into the hall, ahead of her old Matilda, and 
opened the front door myself, and there were two officers 
standing on the steps — I knew they were officers by the 
straps on their sleeves; and one of them screamed at me: 

"'Is the doctor here?' 

"'No!' I said; 'but I've sent the soldiers to get Dr. 
Hall for Mr. Seward. Is he living.?' 

"And the officer said, 'Madam, what is this }-ou say 
about Mr. Seward.' I have come from Mr. Lincoln. 
Mr. Lincoln has been assassinated!' 

"And I said, 'No! No! It is Mr. Seward!; 

"The man said to me, 'What are you talking about.' 
Good God! Seward.' It is the President! I helped to 
carry him out of the theatre. The blood — the blood,' he 
said, in a sort of whisper; 'it dripped on my hand.' He 
looked sick, and he rubbed his hand on his trousers. I 
can see him now. 

"Just at that minute Robert's boy came in through 
the back hall from our house; I remember he had his 
master's gauntlets in his hand, and the buggy whip; 
Rob was just behind him. 

"'What in the world is all this fuss.'' he said to me; 
and then he saw the soldiers. 'What do you want?' he 
said. But they didn't wait to answer him; they just 
took hold of him and pulled him into the street. I heard 
one of them cry out: 

'"Mr. Lincoln has been assassinated! Mr. Lincoln 
has been shot! Mrs. Lincoln is calling for you — ' 

"And they pulled him over the pavement to the 
carriage, and pushed him into it. I ran down the steps 
after them, into the street, saying: 

"'Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen, don't let any harm come 
to Dr. Stone!' But they did not listen to me; they 
just slammed the door of the carriage, and the driver 
lashed the horses, and they tore off over the cobblestones, 
down the street. Mother had come out of the parlor, 
and was standing in the doorway, wiping her fingers on 
a lace handkerchief; they were wet, you know, from the 
musical glasses; she looked perfectl)' bewildered. 

"'What is it.'' she said. But I stood there on the pave- 
ment, with the wind blowing my skirts round my ankles, 
and burst out crying: 

"'Oh,' I said, 'he will be hurt!' I never thought of 
poor Lincoln — it was just my Rob. 'They will hurt 
him,' I said; 'everybody knows I am Robert Lee's 
cousin, and they'll put my Robert in prison!' 

"You see, I knew that people used to whisper 'traitor' 
when they saw me. Yankees have no manners (though 
you have been very well brought up, my dear. Nobody 
would dream you were from the North). 

"Well, I started up mother's steps, but waited to let 
two men pass me; they were gesticulating, and talking 
very loud and frightened; and one of them said: 

"'And Stanton was to have been killed, too, but he 
was out of town.' 



"Then I knew it was a conspiracy against the Govern- 
ment."' 

Marg.\ret Deland. 



Fifty Doggerel Charades. 

.x.w. 

My first my second till his third 

Refused to serve him more. 
His wife declared his course absurd, 

When fourth to him she bore. 

"Your third how second," then she cried, 

"And like a fourth too high." 
"Do break this habit!" he replied; 

"It is my whole, more strong than I." 

XXVI. 

My first a measure is; the king my ne.xt 
Is sure to have, while farmers for it pray; 

My whole a measure is; if you're perple.xed. 
It is the obstacle that's in your way. 

XXVII. 
When my first found my next at hand. 

He said with dismal cry; 
"Where is the good so long I planned, 

And third ere I shall die.' 
Now spite of all my whole, I know. 
Unfinished all these schemes must go." 

XXVIII. , 

Seek for my first at the poles; 
For my second where the chariot-wheel rolls; 
My whole you'll find, when on pleasure bent. 
Delighting crowds in the circus-tent. 

XXIX. 
My first and second are the same. 
And by my fourth I might you name. 
One fifth my second thrown away, 
My fourth would as remainder stay; 
Yet one fifth of my first, 'tis plain. 
Is of my fourth a fourth again. 
To do my whole still Mercy strains, 
However black the guilty stains. 



The Letter Bag. 

the letters of an American who enlisted in England early 



[Extracts from 
in the war, and who is a Lieutenant in th 



■ Guards. 



.\pRii. 3, '16. Belgium. 

. . . I'm feeling very perky this morning, for an order has just 
come through for us to move to a safer place further back, and I already 
feel younger, for we have been in this continuous hell for three weeks 
to-day, and our nerves are pretty well shredded. It's all very well, and 
our natural job to go up to the trenches at night, and have things hum- 
ming about us; but being shelled all day and every day besides is more 
than most people can live unafl^ected through for any length of time. 
Mind you, the other battalions are never up in the shelled area for more 
than eight or ten days at most; they do about four days in reserve 
under intermittent shell fire, then two days in support trenches, 2 in the 
front line — or about that much — and then go right away back for a 
week, while we poor devils have been under shell fire for three weeks, 
and go up into the lines sometimes 2 nights out of 3, sometimes alternate 
nights, depending on the amount of work required. Two officers of 
this company are on detached duty, and one sick in hospital, so I'm the 
only subaltern left, and last week I went up three nights running; the 
first two nights it was bullets only, but the third night Fritz was after the 
reliefs passing to and fro in our communication trench, and we got 
shelled good and plenty, spending half our time in the trench taking 
cover, instead of outside doing work. It was impossible to stay in the 
open, for they plastered the place with shrapnel, "woolly bears" and 
"whizz bangs"; and when they let up so that we could resume work, 
a very busy ma.xim traversed our area so that it wasn't too healthy 
either. Night before last I was in charge of 3 platoons, and we were 
dodging shrapnel and whizz bangs for over a mile — you can imagine my 
funk and an.xiety with three platoons to get through whole if possible. 
But both those two bad nights, though we had some precious narrow 
squeaks and several helmets got strafed or dented, we lost no men. 
Thomas A. is really wonderful, and doesn't care a hang. One lad 
summed up the situation tersely the other night in his only French: 
"No bloody bonne promenade this!" and another called out in a plain- 
tive voice — "Don't strafe me, Fritz, I'm next for leave." A few have 
their nerves a bit shaky, but they joke with their pals, and feel better. — 
I think the wretched officers with responsibilities feel it most. 



40 



BAZAAR DAILY 



THE, BOSTON MOTHLR C^OOSL. 

V. 

A BOSTON ALPHABET. 

A is 5am Adams in Adams Square, 
With such an i-don't-give-Adam air. 

B is the Browning Club, known in the town 

As a place where the poet is done up so brown. 

C's Charles River Basin, most lovely of views 
When sunset and dusk mingle on it their hues. 

D is the Dome of the State House, all gold. 
Marking the market where laws are sold. 

E's the Exchange, where whatever the weather 
The brokers all hasten to shout there together. 

F is the Frog Pond, where Boston fads 
Are taken for baptism by their dads. 

G is the Garden, where flowers are gay. 
And lovelier yet are the children at play. 

H is the Harvard boy ; his manners to spoil 
Is Boston society's unflagging toil. 

I is a pronoun which ever to use 

The modest Bostonian is firm to refuse. 

J is for Jobs. But the rest of this verse 

It would give in high quarters offence to rehearse. 

K's Boston Kuilur, as it would be 

If German dominion had crossed the sea. 

L is the Library, on whose scutcheon boldly 

Two little boys stand wjthout nighties so coldly. 

M's the Museum; Back Bay's of it proud; 
And North End Italians go there in a crowd. 

N's the North End, once there dwelt aristocracy; 
Now 'tis the home of the foreign democracy. 

O is Old South, saved by action concerted. 
When by its children the shrine was deserted. 

P is for Parks, lovely laid on each side. 

Matchless they stretch, Boston's glory and pride 

O is the line waiting long to get in 

When the Rehearsals on Friday begin. 

R is Rehearsal ; as all are aware 

Better are heard than concerts elsewhere. 

S is the Subway, when one in it goes. 

Where one will come out again nobody knows. 

T is Trimountain ; don't ask where it stands. 

For its top was dug off to fill in Back Bay lands. 

U is the Union Club, where portly gentlemen 
Eat, smoke, and talk of nothing, — thendoitall again. 

V's Veneration the Boston man knows 
Whenever a mirror his face to him shows. 



Ws for Washington, riding so grand 

Adown through the Garden with air of command. 

X is Expenses, a fungus that all 

Know grows most rankly inside City Hall. 

Y is for Yawns the Bostonian suppresses 
Feigning to like transcendental addresses. 

Z is for Zig-zag, which old Boston ways 
Make to fool strangers in tortuous maze. 



The British Tommy and the Harvard Unit. 

There is no one thing that impresses a surgeon who 
has spent a great deal of time working in British Base 
Hospitals more than the wonderful spirit and fortitude 
with which the average British Tommy bears up under 
the suflFering and crippling that is an inevitable part of 
the present European catastrophe. 

Having spent two summers with the Harvard Surgical 
Unit in General Hospital 22 of the British Expeditionary 
Force and having acted as consultant for the other 
British Base Hospitals in the immediate vicinity, I have 
had under my personal observation something over ten 
thousand British wounded, and I can truthfully say that 
in practically no instance has there been any exhibition 
of loss of courage at the often inevitable crippling resulting 
from the removal of eye or limb. 

No one who has not worked with these men can have 
any conception of the inspiration it is to surgeons and 
nurses for the accomplishment of their best work to be 
daily in contact with men who give so much for the sake 
of their country so cheerfully. Each soldier is imbued 
with the idea that he is out, as he expresses it, "to do his 
bit," and if doing that bit involves what it does to so 
many, each man feels that he has done his duty and is 
willing to take "whatever comes to him" in so doing. 

The several hundred surgeons and nurses who have 
constituted the various Harvard Surgical Units, besides 
giving of their strength and time to help the Allies, have 
also helped themselves to a much broader view of the 
brotherhood of man than probably any of them had 
before. 

It is not my purpose at this time to call special attention 
to individual members of the Units, but I cannot let the 
opportunity pass without expressing my appreciation of 
the fact that the success of the Harvard Surgical Units 
has been largely due to the energy and versatility of the 
manager, Mr. Herbert White, of the University Press, 
who now keeps an office-force simply for the purpose of 
doing the executive work for the Units and for forward- 
ing all kinds of Red Cross supplies to the different Units 
and to the various other hospital interests in England 
and France. Probably no man in America has done 
more than Mr. White to demonstrate to the Allies the 
desire of many in this country to show friendship for 
them. 

Allen Greenwood. 



"Birds in tlieir little nests agree, 
And 'tis a shameful sight" 

The way they gobble worms to see, 
Chewing them not a mite! 



Young wife (doing her accounts): "How much is nine 
and sixteen.^ " 

Young husband: "Twenty-five." 

Wife: "Oh, no, that isn't right, for then my check- 
book wouldn't balance. Can't you call it twenty-three.?" 



DEC 18 1916 



BAZAAR DAILY 



10 Cents 



BOSTON, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1916 



No. 6 




CW . Hua^rdL^ 



The last word in modern comfort at a winter resort on the Somme. 



42 



BAZAAR DAILY 



The Forgotten. 
I. 

And even while we wait, 
For them that thirst, bright Time is growing late. 
Such hours are quick to go; 
Quick, even so 
As pale auroras flicker, — 
Pulse of my heart] how quicker 
To them that wait what Spring may bring at last, 
And look, — and find her past. 
Quicker than orchards blow; 
Quick as a smile, to rise 
And ripple from the young believing eyes; 
And go. 

II. 
And even while we wait, 
For them that starve, the daytime is so late. 
Even such hours must go; 
But slow, — slow. 
Slow for the ooze of hope; 
For hands too weak to grope; 
For hearts too spent to listen, at the last. 
Knowing the footstep passed. 
Last hours, and stark as snow 
Over the heart's dim cries; 
Slow as the smile that wakes, in aged eyes. 
To fade and fade; — 
And go. 

Josephine Preston Peabody. 



The Daughter of Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas. 

III. 

Less than an hour after the escape of Abdul Ahmed a 
deputation waited upon me with much ceremony to 
request ("Was I not the dowerer of the portionless and a 
cool fountain of kindness.'"') that I would visit the 
wounded Sheikh Hassan Osman, that he might be blessed 
with my skill in surgery. I went gladly enough, willing 
to put an end to my share of the day's business by an 
act which might counterbalance any feeling among the 
people that I had been guilty in refusing asylum to one 
hard-bestead. 

On the way to the house of the Sheikh I heard the 
whole story: how the trees of the Sheikh had been burned 
early in the morning; how he had flown into a towering 
rage, and declared he would shoot the offender at sight; 
how he had cursed Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas, root 
and branch, for bringing this upon him; how he had given 
over his cursing when they had offered to join his feud 
and had adduced his senile rage as proof of the youthful 
vigor which made him an exceptionally fitting spouse 
for the fifteen-year-old daughter of Ibrahim. Of the 
afternoon's catastrophe I was told by an eyewitness. 
The Sheikh, breathing vengeance, had gone to look once 
more at the ruined trees. As he stood with a small 
crowd of villagers among the olives, suddenly Abdul 
Ahmed, gun in hand, had appeared on the scene. He had 
called out tauntingly to know if the Sheikh was yet 
minded to lead home a new wife. The old man had 
answered with a curse, and, being unarmed, had snatched 
at the gun of a bystander. At this, Abdul Ahmed had 
promptly blazed away with both barrels. The first took 
the Sheikh in the right shoulder, and peppered him well 
with shot. Luckily, on account of the distance, they 
had done little more than embed themselves in the skin; 
but the second barrel, charged with a ball, had splintered 
the old man's heel. 

After this brilliant piece of powder-play, the Landless 
One had coolly reloaded. He called out that if he fired 
again he should do so to kill, and then started to walk 
away. The villagers, recovering themselves, set after 
him, and he ran. Others, attracted by the noise of the 
shots, joined the chase. Eventually he had come to my 
door, but with that firm justice for which I was dis- 
tinguished, said the narrator (Oh, the stealth and inscrut- 



able meaning of the sultry brown eyes that here glanced 
obliquely at my own!), I had frightened him away with 
talk of the Government. They had characteristically 
forgotten the wretched Sheikh until the cliase was ended. 
Each man, apparently, had then turned on his fellow 
with the question: "Why didn't you stay with him?" 
Thus wrangling, they went back, to find that the old 
man had limped and crawled halfway home. He had 
lost a good deal of blood, and was weak and giddy when 
they found him. 

Most of all, however, the Sheikh suffered from the 
'aib which had been put upon him. Nothing we Occi- 
dentals can say of "disgraces" quite represents an ^aib. 
It is something that eats into the soul until it is re- 
quited. An ' aib may be wiped out with blood or money, 
but it can never be forgiven without redress. 

"But how did the Landless get a horse.?" I asked. 

"' Wallahi!" cried four men together. "It was the son 
of Ibrahim who waited in the valley with the horse! And 
the horse was Ibrahim's — Allah save us from begetting 
such sons! This Nuwas is a friend to the enemy of his 
house. Now he cries 'Woe! Woe!' while Ibrahim beats 
him with a stick!" 

I was astonished, and showed it. Here was a friendship 
worthy of old days. A boy of perhaps fourteen who aids 
a penniless friend to thwart the wishes of his own father 
in the matter of disposing of a daughter, and who lifts 
a horse out of the parental stable therefore, might well 
"taste stick," even with us. In Syria he would certainly 
be gorged with that quickly cloying diet. 

The deputation was yet talking when we reached the 
house of the Sheikh. We crossed the dirty court, and 
entered the dark and cool seldmlik where the wounded 
man lay. He was stretched on the low divan, groaning 
feebly in response to the questions of solicitous friends, 
who almost filled the square room. It was with some 
difficulty that I got them out and obtained hot water. 
I pass over the surgical details of my visit. By the same 
messenger who carried to Nablijs, si.x miles away, the news 
of the shooting to the ears of the Mutessarif Basha, I 
despatched to the mission doctor a note for bandages, 
and trusted to luck that the old man should not die and 
our Expedition be held responsible because I had done 
this service. I was much relieved at each visit I made 
during the next two days to find the Sheikh holding his 
own. Indeed, on looking back, I believe his soul suffered 
more from the disgrace than did his body from its wounds; 
nor should I be surprised if a burning lust to be avenged 
made him well-nigh insensible to his hurts. 

IV. 

Three days after the fray, as I sat smoking in the dusk 
of the court, Bishara tumbled in at the gate, quite breath- 
less. 

"O my Master," he cried, "they have got him safe. 
They caught_him in the Wady 'Azzun, and he is here 
with five soldiers in charge of him. And I saw the 
shau'hh [sergeant] in the shop, and he was telling—" 

"Who has got whom.?" I interrupted. 

''Nam? The soldiers have taken Abdul Ahmed. 
They have brought him here in irons. The shawish 
is in the shop, telling how they took him. In the morning 
they will carry him to Nablus to prison." 

"Get my shoes," I said; "I will go to the village. 
Send Mohammed with a lantern." 

The little box of a shop was filled with peasants, 
grouped about a very fierce and very ragged sergeant of 
police, who was evidently enjoying his popularity to the 
utmost. The men rose courteously as I came in. I 
bought some tobacco, and sat down beside my friend 
Hajji Hamed, the schoolmaster. As I refrained from 



BAZAAR DAILY 



43 



asking questions, tlie narrative I had interrupted was 
quickly recommenced. 

"Alia!" ran on the sergeant; "a dog-son. . . . Whence 
so much wit.' . . . But I took the fox. . . . Ask the 
Mutessarif Basha who is eyes and hands to his police. 
He will tell you: 'Without 'Aly Shahin I would know no 
peace.' Not so.?" 

"True, by the head of my father," said a villager. 
"Did not Abdul Ahmed elude us.? Yet by the cunning of 
this one he was taken.'' 

"Cunning is a good thing," said the sergeant, rolling 
a fresh cigarette, "but without courage and daring the 
rest is as nothing. By my head, there was great danger. 
We had news he was at Jiljulieh, and so were riding at 
ease down the Wady 'Azzun. So! A man on a gray 
horse with a gun across his saddle-pommel. Hal He 
is not afraid to use it either, the son of a burnt father! 
That is known. But I rode to him. 'Halt,' I said to 
him, 'in the name of the Sultan!' He raised his gun. 
Oh, he is a bold one, that Abdul! " 

" Yfl Salami" exclaimed a breathless hearer. "He 
raised his gun? " 

The sergeant borrowed a match, lit his cigarette, in- 
haled deeply, and then spoke while the smoke curled 
slowly from his lips, beneath his short black mustache. 

"'In the name of the Sultan,' I said; but that devil 
only grinned, and raised his gun. But I, I rode straight 
to him, so that he was overcome with fright. Then fear 
seized him, so that he threw down his gun, and wept." 

"A strong liar," whispered the schoolmaster in my ear. 
" One of the soldiers told me they took him asleep at noon. 
And in that is only one thing doubt-worthy: that they 
should themselves have been awake." 

Shortly there appeared at the door of the shop one of 
the soldiers. He excused himself lamely for deserting 
guard, but the sergeant was evidently glad of one who 
would indorse all his boasts, and he began telling the 
tale over again. By the time this was completed, with 
ardent confirmatory chorus from the soldier, a second of 
the sergeant's men slipped in; and I reflected that the 
irons on Abdul Ahmed's wrists would soon be all there 
was left to take care of the prisoner. Ibrahim the 
Father of Nuwas, much solaced by this day's work, called 
for the retelling of the whole story, as I was starting on 
my homeward way. 

Oric Bates. 
{To be continued.) 



Some Ancient Wisdom and a Moral. 

While engaged a few years ago in writing a life of Carlo 
Goldoni, the dramatist, I was often led into Italian 
pastures far afield from the drama. To be enticed into 
an acquaintance with Machiavelli was unavoidable, since 
this much-maligned Florentine was the author of the 
first real comedy of manners written in the Italian 
language. I confess, however, that after reading "The 
Mandrake," as I was bound in all conscience as a biogra- 
pher of Goldoni to do, I turned with considerable avidity 
to "The Prince," in order that I might find the manner 
of the man, whose name, has become a synonym for 
duplicity. 

Now I have no intention of holding a brief for Signor 
Niccolo di Bernardo dei Machiavelli; yet I must con- 
fess that after glancing through his much-anathematized 
epitome of statecraft, as well as his history of Florence, 
I came to the conclusion that he was considerable of a 
patriot and also a very sophisticated person. Indeed, I 
have had reason to feel, during the past two years, that 
those in authority in my own land might profit from a 
study of Machiavelli. Our world has become quite as 



unscrupulous as that in which he lived, and far more 
warlike. Those who would guide our nation to a safe 
haven have need, it seems to me, of a statesmanly wisdom 
such as Machiavelli displayed when he penned these 
words: — 

"For the Conqueror doth not care for doubtful friends, who will not 
help him in his need; and the Loser will not welcome thee, when thou 
wouldst not take arms, and run his risks." 

But Machiavelli was not the only worldly wise Floren- 
tine of the Renaissance who devoted his leisure moments 
to the writing of history. Francesco Guicciardini, a 
lawyer, diplomat, administrator, and soldier, who was 
born just ten years before Columbus sailed on his first 
voyage of discovery, found sufficient time during his 
active life to write so consequential a history of his 
native land, that he has taken an important place among 
the historians of Italy. I confess that I have not read 
Guicciardini at any great length; yet I chanced, not 
long ago, to be browsing in the library of a friend, where 
my glance fell upon a prettily bound volume bearing the 
title "The Maxims of Francis Guicciardini." It was an 
English translation published some seventy years ago, 
and having a fondness for things Italian and knowing 
Guicciardini by name, at least, I picked it from its shelf 
and began turning its pages in a desultory way. In a 
moment my attention was arrested by this passage so 
applicable to the United States at the present time, that 
it seemed as if it must have been written yesterday, in- 
stead of four centuries ago: — 

"I commend him who stands Neutral in the Wars of his Neighbors, 
if he be so powerful, or has his Dominions of such Condition, as that 
he hath nothing to fear from the Conqueror; because he doth thus avoid 
Peril, Expenses, and Exhaustion, and the Disorders of the others who 
may afford him some profitable Opportunity. Except it be with 
these conditions. Neutrality is Foolishness, because binding thyself to 
one of the parties, thou dost run no danger but the victory of the 
other, but standing between, thou art always bruised, conquer who 
will." 

While it may be commendable for Americans to stand 
neutral in the wars of our neighbors, we should ask our- 
selves whether indeed our dominions are of such condition 
that we have nothing to fear from the conqueror. If we 
are not, we may learn to our sorrow the truth of Machia- 
velli's admonition that the conqueror will not care for 
doubtful friends, and that the loser will not welcome those 
who would not take arms and run the risk. 

H. C. Chatfield-Taylor. 



The Legacy. 

[This poem, read at the Papyrus Club in 1907, has not before been printed.) 

With patient toil he tilled his plot of ground. 

And stored each shoot that light and air had found. 

Amid the labor that he loved so well 

His neighbor's shadow on the harvest fell. 

Pausing to argue, with a languid smile: 

"Why work, my friend, when naught is worth your while.'" 

The idler asked: "Rewards men die to gain 

I count not, but I hold them all- in vain. 

"Worthless your work, the shadow of a shade! 

Why labor to create iti"" Undismayed 

The toiler turned. "God knows," he said; "not I! 

Though naught do I produce, I like to try!" 

The other laughed. "Lo! neighbor, everywhere 

I long have sought a man to be my heir; 

"To you, what share of my estate you please. 

Cash, titles, gems — " "No, neighbor, hone of these," 

The man replied: "If honestly you mean. 

Give me your shrivelled thought to make it green. 

"And if your bounty would add one thing more, 

Leave me your ashes, to enrich my store. 

"That gift were priceless!" "Ah, my friend, why so?" 

"Neighbor, your dust would make my garden grow!" 

Thomas Russell Sullivan. 



44 



BAZAAR DAILY 



BAZAAR DAILY 

Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
Editor, ARLO BATES 

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 

William Dean Howells 
Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 

Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 

The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the AUied 
Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
taken at the booth. 

COPVRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 

Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 

At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band, Donald 
Sawyer and Polly Prior in Exhibition Dancing from 4 to 

6 P.M. 

In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
new and wonderful war pictures. 

Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of George 
Bowden of Tedesco. 



Paul Revere Hall. 3 to 4. — Portuguese Dances; 
Marimba Band; Solo Dances; Hawaiians. 

4.30. — Mr. Stewart Baird, " Impersonations," of the 
Sybil Company, by the courtesy of Charles Dillingham. 

8 to 9. — Miss Bertram, soprano, Irish Songs. 

9.45. — Main Hall, Singing of Patriotic Songs. 

Shall we ever again be able to see a person part the 
lips without expecting to hear: "Can you tell me 
where — " 



The crowds at the Bazaar are large, but they are 
uniformly good-humored. The kindly purpose of the 
enterprise seems to have entered into the hearts of the 
folk, and in a way to have made the bustling, noisy stir 
wonderfully human and wonderfully humane. 

The phrase "to trench on another's ground" will 
after this war have a fresh and biting significance. 



Patriotism is the love, of country; but love of the 
material prosperity of one's land is not patriotism. It 
may be a poison which destroys patriotism utterly. 
No man is truly a patriot who does not realize that a 
country which has nothing worth dying for has nothing 
worth living for. The backbone of national greatness 
is national self-respect, and national self-respect is 
possible only where men are ready to give up anything, 
even life itself, rather than that the national honor shall 
be tarnished. 



The -decorative cartoons made by F. Verheyden for 
the booth of the Daily and for the Belgian booth have 
attracted much attention and admiration. Fine in 
conception and strong in design, and excellently adapted 
to their purpose, they are a notable contribution toward 
the success of the Bazaar. 



To Friends of France! 

I would it were possible to bring nearer home, make 
more real to your life, a tiny village on the Eastern 
front, such as the one where I first started my chateau- 
hospital. How can one depict the agricultural difficulties 



that have been obliterated by the untiring labor of old 
men, women, and even of children; to bring vividly before 
your minds the hundreds of humble cottages where the 
mother with tears in her eyes joins the hands of her little 
ones, and piously repeats with them: "O God, our Father 
in Heaven, keep papa and our big brothers safe and bring 
them back to us." 

Here all is sadness, hard labor, and resignation. 

From time to time a mounted gendarme rides up to the 
town hall. Our mayor, a very old man, talks a moment 
with him, and as the horseman takes his leave, he hands 
out a paper which the mayor thrusts into his pocket, 
going with tender heart about his various daily duties, 
as though nothing had happened. 

At nightfall the old man, unaccompanied, glides along 
the outer walls of the chateau, enters by the side door, 
and directs his steps towards my little study, which is 
now in the possession of my head-nurse and her aids. 
He knocks gently, then enters. He has come so often 
on this sad mission that the words "Which one.'"' are now 
superfluous; the interrogation in the woman's eyes 
suffice. 

"It is So-and-so! Dead! Will you come?" 

Silently the nurse dons her dark blue cape, and to- 
gether they go to break the sad news. For alone he finds 
himself incapable of saying the tender word, of proffering 
the simple gesture that consoles. 

As the season of Great Good Tidings approaches, does 
it not seem both fitting and proper that those of us who 
are in sympathy with the glorious French should find some 
tangible way of expressing that sentiment? There are 
many who feel so disposed, but cannot find proper means. 
Imagine then the surprise in a tiny township, when, after 
rolling the drum, the town crier announces that some 
lone sympathetic citizen of a far-off foreign country has 
taken the trouble to write a personal letter to the mayor, 
praising the valor of those at the front, lauding the 
courage of those who wait! Think what a change from 
the much-dreaded "casualty roll"! 

Therefore with no other thought in mind than that of 
making real and more human the great bond of sympathy 
between the sister republics, I appeal to each of you, readers 
of this paper, to write a personal letter to the mayor of 
some little town, anywhere in France. 

It would be my pleasure to supply names of persons 
to whom one may write in English, and for those who do 
not speak French, a sample letter has been printed, which 
will be enclosed with name on request to 

Madame Charles Huard, 
44 Gramercy Park, New York City, 

or 
Booth 31, National Allied Bazaar, Boston. 



The Editor's Callers. 

Phyllis came in looking so charming that the Editor 
wanted — quite in a fatherly way — to kiss her on the 
spot; but he restrained this entirely natural impulse, 
and restricted himself to a compliment. 

"My child," he said, "you have really no right to be so 
pretty." 

Phyllis promptly produced a dimple, just by way of 
showing that she could be prettier still. It was her only 
answer, but it was sufficient. 

"And such a taking frock," he went on. 

"Oh, do you think so?" demanded Phyllis, finding her 
voice instantly when it came to a question of clothes. 
"I hoped you would." 

"You knew I would. What diabolical favor have you 
come to ask, that you take the trouble to put on a frock 
that crushes me utterly?" 



BAZAAR DAILY 



45 



Phyllis laughed gleefully, and seated herself in the chair 
he handed. 

"I haven't a favor to ask at all," she responded. "I 
only wanted to ask you something, and see what you'd 
say." 

The Editor leaned forward impressively, and laid the 
tip of a finger on the arm of her chair. 

"My dear Phyllis," he said, "will you do me a favor?" 

"What is it.?"' 

"Tell me first what you want me to say, and then you 
can let me know afterward what it is about. I wouldn't 
have you disappointed for the world; and if you put it 
the other way, I might say the wrong thing." 

Phyllis deepened the original dimple, and looked as if on 
sufficient provocation she might even produce a mate to it. 

"You mustn't talk nonsense," she declared, "for this 
means a lot of money for the wounded." 

"Is it serious then.' What is it.''" 

"Why, of course you know this is my coming-out year." 

"Out of the nursery; yes, of course," the Editor as- 
sented. "I really think you are old enough now to sit 
up to dinner, and have long dresses — only that grown-ups 
don't wear long dresses any more." 

She lifted a reproving finger, and ignored his words. 

"And Aunt Ellen has always promised to give me a 
coming-out ball." 

"Nobody gave me a coming-out ball," he interpolated. 
"Probably that is the reason for the failure of my social 
career. But then even when I was young I wasn't pretty 
like you, and I had no Aunt Ellen." 

Phyllis shook her head at him sternly, but she still 
refused to be diverted from what she had to say. 

"A ball, you know, costs an awful lot of money; and 
now Aunt Ellen says that if I choose I may have .|5,000 
to give to the wounded instead." 

"Instead of your ball?" 

"Of course. But isn't it horrid to have to decide?" 

"Surpassingly horrid. If she sets traps like that, I 
regret less that I never had an Aunt Ellen." 

"Oh, she's a dear," honest Phyllis protested; "but 
what shall I do?" 

"You might remain in, I suppose, and shirk the de- 
cision." 

"Oh, I'm out already. You know you came to 
mamma's tea." 

"So I did; but I always try to forget when I have suf- 
fered a tea. It makes me more friendly to folk. I 
remember, now, you were embedded in roses, and had 
on a purple frock." 

"'Purple!'" she exclaimed in horror. "It was very pale 
lavender." 

"Well," the Editor conceded generously, "have it so 
by all means. The exact shade doesn't alter the fact 
that you are irrevocably out. What are you going to do 
about it?" 

"Why, there isn't anything to do," Phyllis said rather 
woefully. "Of course I can't have my ball; and I had 
counted on it so. If I had it now, I should think of all 
the poor fellows that money would have helped, and it 
would be horrid! But don't you think that it is too bad 
that—" 

"That you can't have your cake and eat it too?" 
the Editor finished the sentence she left incomplete. 
"Quite, quite too bad. It is one of the most painful of 
earthly limitations that the thing can't be done. So you 
are giving up the ball, like the little trump that I always 
knew you to be." 

Phyllis looked at him with sudden gravity. 

"Do you think it is awful of me to be pleased with 
having things like that said?" she asked with a touch of 
wistfulness. "That's what I wanted to ask you." 



The Editor looked at her quizzically, and then laughed 
aloud. 

"Oh, you poor child of self-tormenting Puritans!" 
he cried. "I didn't suppose one of your kind was left. 
Of course you are pleased that people approve of what 
you've done. You'd be a humbug to pretend you weren't. 
You can't help it, and you wouldn't be human if you 
could. The Puritans couldn't help it either, and so they 
had a sort of mental hair-shirt of self-reproach always 
ready to clap on at a minute's notice whenever anybody 
approved of their conduct. We all know when we are 
acting finely, my child; and the pleasure of it is one of 
the strongest inducements to go on in the same fashion." 

Phyllis regarded him with an air of some doubt. 

"But they always told me that I ought not to pride 
myself on being decent," she objected. " I always thought 
it was wicked and horrid." 

"Fiddlesticks and grandmothers, my child! If we 
don't pride ourselves on doing well, we shan't keep at 
it very long; I can tell you that, young lady. Besides, 
we must pride ourselves on something, just to keep our 
self-respect." 

Phyllis brought the dimple from its temporary retire- 
ment. 

"But don't you always try to think you don't pride 
yourself on being good?" she asked slyly. "You don't 
boast your good deeds." 

"You remind me of Charles Lamb's remark," was the 
Editor's answer, rather indirect than ingenuous, "that 
one of the greatest pleasures in life is to do good by 
stealth, and have it found out by accident. Life has a lot 
of humbug in it. It is like nitrogen in the air. It keeps 
us from a too morally oxygenated atmosphere." 

"I don't know what that means," Phyllis said hardily, 
"but you needn't explain it. I must go to pour at Ethel's 
tea." 

She rose as she spoke, and adjusted her fluffy furs. 

"Then you don't think I'm a cad because I was pleased 
at Jack's praising me for giving up the ball?" she asked 
shyly, and with the pink coming into her cheeks. 

The Editor took her hand kindly, and with an air 
almost paternal stroked it softly. 

"My dearest maid," was his answer, "nothing in the 
world is better than that you should be happy to have 
Jack praise a good deed that you've done at a sacrifice." 



The Penny. 

She left her bonds, her stocks, her gold, — 
For richest of earth's women she, — 

And through the spaces wide and cold, 
To Heaven's gate came wistfully. 

"A single penny," Peter said, 

"Is all you here for entrance pay; 

But 't must be one, ere you were dead, 
In charity you gave away." 

The ghost on the chill pavement stone 
Fell down, and prayed on bended knee. 

"Oh, such a penny was never known! 
Yet let me in!" moaned she. 

St. Peter pointed finger stern 
Toward a way that led below. 

"Find Dives there," he said, "and learn 
The lesson he can show!" 



Ruth Carus. 



The hot waffles upstairs are causing trouble in suburban 
homes. They are so delicious that the ladies who taste 
them depart with firm determination to treat their 
husbands to a similar dish. The cooks, frantically fol- 
lowing divers and sundry receipt-books, cannot accomplish 
this, and hence domestic excursions and alarums. 



46 



BAZAAR DAILY 



A Peasant Woman. 

She took her baby on her breast, 

After the long, hard toil of day; 
And as the sun sank in the west. 

Started the long, hard way. 

Only to see her man go past 

When the war-shattered troops marched by, 
All night she walked; till dawn at last 

Tinged as with blood the sky. 

And with the dawn the throbbing drum; 

And there her wistful eyes may see 
The shattered rank of heroes come, — ■ 

Friend, neighbor, but not he. 

A kindly sergeant stayed to speak. 

"So brave he was," he stammered low. 
"He died for France." With death-pale cheek 

She heard, but eyes aglow. 

Her man-child, with no tear let fall, 
Up toward the war-flag's tattered pride 

She lifted as who gives her all. 
"Vive la France!" she cried. 

QuiNCY TOWNSEND. 



An Appreciation. 

I was twelve years old when first introduced to France. 
I remember the year, because we landed on the day of 
the battle of Solferino, a battle since immortalized by 
a French dye. I remember the place, because my mother, 
a poor sailor, remarked she was glad to lay her head on 
the Brest of France. 

Later we saw the entry of the Army of Italy into 
Paris. Whether it was the sight of those victorious 
battalions swinging down the Boulevards which turned 
my boyish thoughts to West Point, or the reluctant 
promise of a wise parent to consider a military career 
if a young would-be patriot would abandon his threat 
to run away and enlist at the ripe age of fourteen, is of 
no consequence. 

I remember, too, being lifted in a dense crowd in order 
that I might catch a glimpse of the Empress as she 
swept up the Rue de Rivoli with postilions and cuirassiers 
of the Imperial Guard, and of appropriating to myself 
the gracious smile, poor lady! bestowed in my direction. 
I do not claim now in days of reason that that smile was 
intended for the bareheaded boy on his father's shoulder, 
but I know that then and there I adopted, annexed as 
my own, another country. For how many things is the 
smile of a woman responsible! 

When my parents started on the then conventional 
journey, to follow the track of the Israelites from the 
Red Sea to the Jordan and incidentally to discover by 
the way proofs of the fulfilment of prophecy, I was 
dropped, perhaps as a useless encumbrance, in a French 
school known as the Pension Roulet. An older brother 
and one other American boy failed to modify sensibly 
the French atmosphere. It was a new world. I re- 
member how insignificant cafe au lait and a petit pain 
looked in the morning to eyes accustomed to a New 
England breakfast. But I was equal to the occasion. 
For I proudly wrote my mother that butter for breakfast 
was a grave mistake — "Monsieur Roulet says it clogs 
the brain." I cannot, however, adduce anything to 
show she became a convert to this theory. 

I remember that laundry days were so far apart that 
my stock of underwear, designed for shorter intervals, 
became at once alarmingly inadequate. 

I remember, too, the big boy who sat next me at the 
long table, — he was a German-Swiss, named Respinger, — 
who regularly diverted to himself my share of a large 
plum tart to which we looked forward every Sunday 



evening. My memory needs no jogging on this point, 
because my older brother advised me to battle for that 
triangle of plum tart, advice I put into practice the fol- 
lowing Sunday with disastrous results. Shall I ever 
forget dear old Monsieur Roulet's lecture on the vul- 
garity of using the fist in the defence of one's rights! 

The memories that cluster about those months are 
vague now. Is it any wonder.' For I read in the journal 
in which I recorded my doings and impressions one 
ever-recurring phrase — "Same as yesterday." The im- 
pressions not recorded in that journal are the permanent 
ones. There were, to be sure, excursions in the mountains, 
hunts for fossils which I still incline to call " petrifications," 
duels with short sticks in the cellar of the new building, 
between the German boys; and among the impressions, 
that made by the sweet face of a daughter of the house at 
whose feet I laid with fifty others the first offerings of wor- 
ship. But what I did not realize then as most worthy of 
record was something altogether too subtle for a boy to ap- 
preciate, something intangible but not evanescent, some- 
thing akin to a flavor or an aroma, which pervaded even 
the literature fed to the schoolboy. Very likely at the 
time I was not keenly interested in the morals so artfully 
concealed in "Telemaque" and the "Dialogues of the 
Dead," those "Greek poems in French prose"; very 
likely I did not then recognize the genius which, as 
d'Aguesseau says, "gave to trifling subjects a new im- 
portance, treating the gravest with a touch so light that it 
appeared to have invented the sciences rather than learned 
them"; but I am sure that in those days when Fenelon, 
seasoned now and then with a chanson de geste and a 
novelette, was my meat and drink, I felt the influence 
of that incomparable grace, that beauty and finish of 
workmanship, that limpid art and fresh originality, which 
have made French literature the delight and despair of 
the reader. 

My second contact with France was in a sterner school, 
the Ecole des Fonts et Chaussees, and the Conservatoire des 
Arts et Metiers. The tinsel glitter of the Second Empire 
had passed away. The Lady of the Gracious Smile was 
in mourning for an Emperor and a throne. After the 
baptism of the Revolution had come the baptism of 
national defeat and humiliation — both regenerative. 
Even the student of Monge and Euler could not fail to 
be impressed by that extraordinary vitality and recupera- 
tive energy which, in spite of the tragedy of Sedan and 
the Commune, the burden of the war indemnity, the 
three royalist pretenders and the Napoleonic legend, 
triumphed over reaction and laid the enduring foundations 
of the Republic. Paris was a seething furnace of political 
emotion and excitement, in the midst of which the in- 
tellectual life flourished, radiant and serene. What a 
delight it was to steal away from stereotomy at the 
Conservatoire for an hour with Taine at the Beaux Arts or 
Caro at the Sorbonne! And how astonished was the 
West Point graduate to find in the Annates of the Fonts 
et Chaussees the sources, even to the illustrations, of his 
Mahan! 

There follow later associations in an editorial capacity 
with Rod and Verlaine, Sarcey, de Maupassant, and others, 
associations chiefly of correspondence and tinctured with 
commercialism, though not devoid of personality; and 
later still the closer associations formed in official life — 
a longer story. But on these it is not necessary to dwell. 
For I am speaking of foundations, foundations of aflPection 
and of taste, and these were laid long before in the 
schoolroom and the family, when the same clarity and 
precision which distinguishes all French literature was 
found in the textbook, and the charm which pervades 
French social intercourse in the home. 

I am neither blind nor unjust in respect to my debt 



BAZAAR DAILY 



47 



to Germa'ny, a debt contracted more especially in the 
realm of Science. But in those particular subjects in 
w^iich I was interested, when I foot up my debit column 
I find most of the items are to be charged to patient 
minute compilation and practical application, and few 
to originality. 

If in later life I had had the honor of having talked to 
a Kaiser, as when a boy I was smiled upon by an Empress, 
would the current of my sympathy have been diverted? 
I think not. For beginning with student days in '73 
and '74, and continuing down through numerous tourist 
wanderings to official life in six capitals, I encountered so 
often that insolence, no less offensive because veiled, that 
rasping pretence to superiority, that brutality of method, 
in matters large and small, that even the accolade of a 
Kaiser could not have condoned them. After '70 the 
Prussian shadow spread gradually over all Germany, 
completely obscuring the simple homely land of our 
earlier love. Should any one contend that my experi- 
ence was exceptional, I beg to cite the recent experience 
of the world at large, of which mine is a humble but 
faithful illustration. 

No, I do not regret the boyish choice, confirmed in 
maturer years. France wears her faults upon her sleeve. 
On the empty sleeve of to-day they are forgotten. The 
bitter irony of it all is that we should ever have judged 
her by a Boulanger instead of a Joffre, by an Austerlitz 
instead of a Verdun. 

Arthur Sherburne Hardy. 



Fifty Doggerel Charades. 

XXX. 

Double my first is found inside, 
They say, of every Russian's liide. 
The work of every printer's reclconed 
By what's the double of my second. 
Who is my whole in any clime 
Gets twice my second many a time. 

XXXI. 

My first is perusal; 

My next is notation; 
My third is refusal; 
A'ly fourth is evasion; 
My whole, like blessed charity, 
A covering for sins may be. 

XXXII. 

Sweet Rose did I for pity first, 

So fair she third and cold; 
Yet I so high her charms must fifth, 

I cried: "Despair makes bold! 
I am my whole with fervent love; 

Your favor let me boast!" 
"Fourth!" sneered-she. "Leave me. I'll return 

Your letters second post." 

XXXIII. 

When spicy scandal greets the ear, 

It may be first or first and next; 
But if of third the tale we hear. 

Then whole we call it, sorely vexed. 

XXXIV. 

When that my second bore my whole, 

Men seized it as a thing accursed, 
And cast it straightway in the sea, 

Because my whole was not my first. 

XXXV. 

My first has not my next because 

"My whole!" hath ordered fashion's laws. 



The Letter Bag. 

April 13, '16. 

. . . Good old Mackensie Rogan and our Regimental Band have been in 
France three or four months now and have done themselves proud. 
The old man has fifty-one years' service, having started as a drummer, 
and he is still going strong. I have heard the band several times on 
off days in the big town behind us, and the other day a crump burst 
near enough to throw debris and stuff on the roof of the building in 
which he was playing, but he finished the piece without a break, and 
then a staff officer turned the audience out. Another day I heard the 
massed drums and fifes of the Guards Brigade play in the Square there, 
and it was splendid. 

July i6th, '16. 

. . . Just at this juncture a silly ass (a private) in a near-by hut 
caused a young explosion by putting some cordite into an old oil bottle 
made of brass and touching a match to it; result, loud bang, one man 
narrowly missed by a bit of brass, and the remainder of the oil bottle 
embedded in the wall of the hut; also perpetrator very much scared at his 
performance, assuring me, who happened to be the officer on the spot, 
that he wouldn't have done it if he'd known it would cause an explosion 
— crazy loon! He's in the book, and I suppose I shall have to be the 
cause of his getting strafed, though it does seem funny that a man 
should have to be school-boyed here in camp when there's hell-fire and 
destruction going on unasked not very far off. ... I suppose you 
have read about the new wound stripe — all officers and men who have 
been wounded are to wear a three-inch, very narrow perpendicular 
stripe on the left arm, gold Russian braid. It had already started in 
England, one stripe for each occasion wounded. . . . 

Aug. 7, '16. 

. . . Yesterday I saw a pen with 250 odd Hun prisoners in it, in- 
cluding three beastly looking officers. Of that lot two officers and 
ninety men had come over the night before and surrendered — 500 of 
'era, which is half a battalion, started across, but got caught between 
the two artillery barrages, and only 92 got over; it was their first time 
in the trenches, and they had new uniforms and were a pretty well set 
up looking lot — Jaegers, with light green uniforms; so if they are coming 
over in half-battalions to any extent before they have had a proper 
dose of the trenches and our iire, it looks pretty cheery for us — that lot 
thought the war will end by Aug. 13! The rest of the prisoners were a 
bestial, ratty, mangy, loathsome looking swine, and nearly all had also 
come over of their own accord to surrender. One of the compound 
guards told me one of the Hun officers had "cursed him proper" when 
he woke him up that morning, so I said, "Wake him with your boot next 
time, seeing how they treat our officers"; and he replied, "Well, sir, 
I did bring 'im to by droppin' a brick on the floor of the tent next to 'is 
'ead." 

Aug. 15, '16. 

You seem surprised that we have parades anywhere near the lines; we 
don't have just drill parades very near (5 miles is the nearest I can 
remember) but parade doesn't mean only for drill — we have rifle, am- 
munition and gas-helmet inspections as near as two miles from Fritz, 
or anyhow within the shrapnel zone, and I've had to dismiss quick 
sometimes. . . . You also asked about the Y. M. C. A. huts — Yes, 
they are a splendid institution, and everyone seems to agree that they 
are about the most valuable and useful things of their kind. . . . They 
are a godsend to the men. 

Sept. 24, '16. 

. . . Two friends of mine and several acquaintances were killed on 

the 15th, and Col. was killed too; they got his body back to 

and I made an expedition to bring him in. I managed to send him back 
to where his battalion were resting, and he got a proper burial. I gave 
him as decent a send-off as possible from the battlefield — I had my party 
fix bayonets and present arms as the limber moved off; we couldn't 
have done even that had it not been a rainy day, for the Huns weren't 
so very far off, and would have caught the glint of our bayonets and 
shelled us. 



Little Bailey having been disobedient through the day, 
his mother suggested, when he was saying his prayers, 
he should ask God to help him to obey his mother. To 
this suggestion he answered, "I did, one night." 
"But you ought to every night." 
"O mother, I trust God more than that." 



A farrier fared to the fair 
To get for his fair fairing there; 
But the cost of the fairing 
And fare set him swearing. 
For he vowed it was fairly unfair. 



Which is merrier, a grig or a sandboy? 

What is the relation of divorce to a knowledge of 
cooking? 

A man's heart is in his stomach. Is it affected by an 
operation for appendicitis? 



48 



BAZAAR DAILY 



THL B05T0N MOTHER G005L. 

VI. 

LT CLTLRA. 

High jinks and jinks low 

How the ginko trees do grow, 

In the Public Garden fair 

Lifting in the summer air 

Boughs like garlands rich and rare. 

For some dream of eastern passion 

Seems their fluted leaves to fashion, 

As some wizardry each tree 

Compassed in its mystery. 

And when Autumn comes to scold 

With its winds so bleak and cold. 

Then with talismans of gold. 

All the ground they cover well; — 

Shaped as for some orient spell 

Cunningly by magian wrought 

With dread words all magic-fraught. 

Planned and shaped in wizard's cell, 

So to foil the evil schemes 

Which the bitter Autumn dreams. 



Whatever thing can't be found out. 
The Oneday Club must talk about; 
All questions having no replies 
Are precious in its members' eyes. 
Of certainty the glim they douse. 
Of great ideas the clearing-house. 
The isness of the ain't 

And becauseness of the why 
To them are just as easy 

As to swat a noxious fly ; 
They play with words like tennis-balls. 

And find it stunning fun; 
And there's nothing, nothing like it 

Beneath the searching sun. 



Once 'Boston Notions' were knicks and knacks. 

Knives and razors, and pins and tacks ; 

Now they are creeds, and cranks, and views. 

And mixed religions where each may choose; 

Strange-isms and philanthropies. 

And mushroom ethic theories. 

Crops may flourish, or crops may fail, 

Feast or famine may here prevail, 

Weather be sunshine, rain, or hail; 

But the crop of fads in Boston Town 

Will never be done till the place falls down. 



The whirling Hub goes round and round; 

It need not go ahead : 
For through a wide circumference 

Its moving force is spread. 



Hi-diddle-diddle! The men who can fiddle 

All to the Symphony come; 
But when they get there they only can stare 

At THE MAN WITH THE KETTLEDRUM ! 



The good policeman, brave and grand. 
Stands in the street and waves his hand. 
Now he says: "Stay!" and now says: "Go!" 
And then, the first thing that you know. 
He says them both, and with a smash 
The autos come together— crash ! 



As 1 was going up Beacon Hill, 

Beacon Hill — was not clean; 
And there 1 met a Back Bay miss. 

As pretty as a queen. 

I said: "Orion's shining bright." 
She answered, smiling sweet, 

"Because, you know, it's owned by right 
By our dear Beacon Street." 



Oh, Charon's Barge, one summer night. 

Crammed full of Faculty, 
Sailed into darkness out of sight. 

And vanished utterly. 

Then Charon's Barge, an empty shell. 

White on the Basin see. 
Until at last they sold the sell, 

A house-boat for to be. 

But then this boat so very dear 
Could not such doom abide; 

And so one day in autumn drear 
Committed suicide. 



The codfish up on Beacon Hill 

Keeps watch o'er the Speaker's chair; 
The grasshopper down on Faneuil Hall 

Swings lightly in the air. 
Should that codfish that grasshopper gulp. 

Good gracious, the row there would be! 
For people would cry: "Oh, my! Oh, my! 

What a shell-fish cod is he!" 



A club, a club, and a very swell club. 
In a very swell house of tone; 

And a consciousness of its swellness swells 
A swell in the front of stone. 



The Boston child on Browning feeds, 
He talks Theosophy and creeds; 
He prattles of the Soul of Things, 
And scorns the levity of kings. 
His spectacles' refulgent glare 
Fills common mortals with despair; 
He never's young and never ages. 
Within the comic papers' pages 
He in immortal sameness stays. 
And out of them he never strays. 



Symphony Hall the people seek 

Twice at the end of every week; 

And there, with plaster gods to view. 

They read their programmes through and through; 

And since advertisements are dry, 

Musicians to divert them try. 



It is ever the fashion of men at the Hub, 
When they're tired or bored, to kill Time with a 
Club. 



Rub-a-dub-dub! A dome like a tub. 

And four squashed pyramids near; 

An acre of factory-lines all refractory, 

Making a mixture most queer; 
Inside to pass the building round 
The only way is underground. 
If Tech to move made up her mind, 
Why leave her architects behind? 



DEC 18 1916 



BAZAAR DAILY 



10 Cents 



BOSTON, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1916 



No. 7 




The stage door. 



50 



BAZAAR DAILY 



Decoration Day. 

When with new leaves and flowers ye next shall go 
To strew fresh memories upon your dead 
And plant clean flags for soldiers who once bled 

In Lincoln's cause; when next your trumpets blow 

From earth to sky the solemn strain and slow 
Of Taps above each sleeping veteran's bed — 
O then forget not those dear youths that shed 

Their April's blood, whose graves ye do not know. 

Far off in France their bodies folded lie 

Sheathing unbudded promise 'neath the sod, 
Their blossomed spirits safe in peace and ease. 
Pass not these other happy warriors by; 

For these strew flowers and lift your thanks to God; 
They too served Lincoln's cause; sound taps for these. 

Owen Wister. 



The Daughter of Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas. 



Early the next morning I went to see how Sheikh 
Hassan was getting on. I arrived at the house of the 
Sheikh to find him — gone! 

Oh, mockery of ink and paper! Oh, impotence of 
pens and set words! I tell what had befallen not as it 
should be told, but as best I am able: Abdul Ahmed had 
escaped, and Sheikh Hassan had been arrested in his 
place. These two facts were all that were offered me by 
the old servant whom I found in the court of the house. 
Later, from Mustafa Kerim, the keeper of the shop, I 
obtained particulars in this sort: 

"Yea, O sir, those devils have taken him, — him who 
is a Sheikh, a Hajji. By the head of my father, but the 
times are passing evil, or they should smart for it. It 
was after Your Excellency left last evening that another 
soldier came in. Soldiers.'' I spit on such! They left 
but one on guard, and here they sat till cock-crow, drinking 
my coffee and smoking my tobacco. Did I see the color 
of their money? Not so much as a louse could stand on! 
The company had thinned to five or six, when in ran the 
last of those knaves, and whispered to the shaunsh. 
Shazvish? Sa)' rather long-dead-donkey-father! And 
when he heard he roared, and smote the man, and leaped 
to his feet. And Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas, who has 
brought all this trouble upon us, bellowed that Abdul 
Ahmed had escaped. And so it was, but he went not 
alone. Thus it happened. There came to that sentry- 
swine the boy Nuwas, the son of Ibrahim. And he spoke 
the sentry fairly, and said he was come to take leave of his 
friend. And the soldier denied him; but Allah wished 
to punish Ibrahim through his son, and so made the boy 
plead well and the sentry yield. And a short two hours 
after Nuwas had gone away again, the sentry looked in at 
the door. — No Abdul, but only his chains, and two window- 
bars that had been filed half through and wrenched free 
at the bottom. Till broad daylight all were searching, 
but nothing did they find, save that the mare of Sheikh 
Hassan, the Pearl of the Village, our pride, was lifted. 
The Pearl of the Village! The fleetest and the best! 
And now Sheikh Hassan will no more need the yellow- 
corn from me, of which he bought weekly two measures. 
A mare worth a sultan's ransom, gone like the wind, and 
the boy-devil NGwas has taken yet another horse from 
his father, and gone too. Let them return, if they would 
that I spit upon them both!" 

Mustafa Kerim was entirely right in regard to the 
excellence and value of "The Pearl." She was the 
darling of her master's heart, and so guarded that only 
in a time of confusion in the family could Nuwas have 



succeeded in lifting her. I was still in the dark, however, 
why my unfortunate patient should have been taken 
away. 

"Why take him.?" cried Mustafa in answer to my 
question; " because they who have lost all taste for small 
wickednesses must gorge on greater villainies! When 
they could find nothing of Abdul Ahmed, they took 
counsel together, saying that they dared not go empty- 
handed to Nabliis. And that devil shazvish said: 'Let 
us have a rich witness, such as the Basha and his council 
love.' Then they took the Sheikh — Allah consume their 
marrow! — because he was rich and stricken and old, and 
well-nigh without kin. They put the old one in irons and 
lifted him into a litter. And he was silent until they 
told him of the lifting of the Pearl, and then he wept." 

" Allah increase your goods, O Mustafa," I said. " The 
affair is not my affair, but I will write a letter to the 
English doctor at Nablijs, telling him of this. They will 
free the Sheikh, lest their day be blackened.'' 

VI. 

Of the following letters, one I received five days after 
the wretched Sheikh had been carried to Nablus, and the 
second four months later, after I had left Syria. They 
explain themselves, and bring this tumultuous history to 
a close. 

THE FIRST LETTER. 

Nablus; C. M. S. Hospital, July 17, 19 — . 
.l/_v Dear Canton: 

I have seen the Pasha about your Sheikh. At first he "knew nothing 
about him," but he afterward "found out." I insisted upon seeing him. 
They had stuffed him into a villainous hole in the prison, and I found 
him in a very apathetic condition, the left leg badly inflamed, and a 
slight temperature. I insisted upon getting him into the hospital, 
becoming responsible for his safekeeping. He has bucked up a little, 
and is now telling stories of the Russian war to a small Jew in the next 
cot. He told the nurse that he only wants to see his mare again and 
die. I don't think it likely he will for some time do either. 

I am yours heartily, 

Arthur Winton. 

THE SECOND LETTER. 

To the Khawaja Kantfui, making diggings for the Government at 
the Beled of Bab el Kalabsheh, by way of Masr. 

Peace and prosperity and direction under Allah from the Hajji Hamed 
el Fiki of Fendakumieh. 

It is already long, O Sir, that I have meant to write to you, but here 
one comes more readily by attar than by news. The money for the 
school comes every month from the Big Gentleman who now makes the 
diggings you began. Of them I will not write, since I am in darkness of 
their meaning or their purpose. Mustafa Kerim blesses you because 
the men are well paid, and never was so much money seen here before; 
and too for the letter you wrote to the English doctor at Nablus concern- 
ing Sheikh Hassan Osman at the time of his misfortune. 

The Basha would not let the Sheikh go, not even when he was sent 
cured out of the Hosbitalieh. A guard was set over him, and at night 
he slept in the court of the house of the city treasurer. 

At this time came thither a Persian who was a leper. He was a 
scribe of the scribes, and master of nine schools of writing. I know not 
why the hand of Allah had cast upon him the affliction of leprosy, 
unless because he was of the sect of the Shi'a. Now this one remained 
here for some days, and because of his craft 1 fed him. And he told 
me that the last money that had come to his hand had also been from a 
man of Fendakumieh. And when I wondered, he told me that it was at 
Ajlun, across the Jordan: and that there he had written a letter for a 
young man, who, with a bo;- and a blood mare, he had met by the road. 
And I was stirred, for I knew it must be Abdul Ahmed the Landless 
and Nijwas the son of Ibrahim; and that the mare was none other than 
our Pearl. So I told him somewhat of what had here befallen, and he 
told me what was in the letter. It was to be sent to the Hosbitalieh, 
to Sheikh Osman. 

In this letter Abdul Ahmed offered brazenly one half of the mare as 
blood-money for the olive-trees and for the injury; and a quarter more 
that the Sheikh gwe over all thought of marriage with the daughter 
of Ibrahim the Father of Nijwas; and a quarter more for fifteen Turkish 
pounds. And if the Sheikh liked not this bargain, there was no more to 
be said: .Xbdul Ahmed would take the mare to Beyrut and sell her. 
But if the bargain liked him, he should send a letter by post to Niiwas 
the son of Ibrahim at Ajlun, and when the vouchers for the blood- 



BAZAAR DAILY 



51 



money and the fifteen pounds came, Abdul Ahmed would write to the 
Basha acknowledging his guilt and the aiTair would end. This was the 
letter that the Persian wrote by the roadside near Ajlun. 

And when Sheilih Osman received this letter at Nablus he was amazed 
at such shamelessness, and showed it to the Englishman doctor. And 
the Englishman doctor whistled after the manner of his kind (for so 
the Sheikh has since told me), and said: "Let the feud rest. Take 
peace and the mare." 

So the Sheikh sent the quittance and the money, and vowed never 
to look on tlie daughter of Ibrahim. And Abdul Ahmed rode boldly 
into Nablus on the Pearl of the Village, and told the Basha that he did 
the shooting, and that now there was no feud. At first the Council 
said: "To prison"; but he gave five Turkish pounds to the Kadi, and 
the Kadi whitened him in the eyes of those great ones. So he came back 
among us, and gave over the Pearl to the Sheikh, and kissed his hand, 
and they are much together, so that it is a great wonder! And Abdul 
Ahmed is to marry the daughter of Ibrahim the Father of Niiwas, 
for between his gun and the friendship of the Sheikh there is no stand- 
ing against him. Thus does Allah weave with the threads of our lives, 
even as it is written: 

"The shuttle flies from hand to hand, 
But all unknowing grows the weave." 

Mustafa Kerim salutes you; Sheikh Osman salutes you; and many 
others. Forget not your friends, and may Allah increase your prosperity. 

Written by me, Hajji Hamed el Fiki, at Fendakumieh, the si.xth of 
Ramadan, 132-. 

Oric Bates. 



A Sheaf of War Memories. 

I must begin by stating clearly that this meagre sheaf 
of memories is made up of stray straws snatched by mc 
here and there as the warwind whirled them by, and I 
ask to be forgiven for binding them together with a quite 
personal band composed of too many I's and me's. 

I know how hard it must have been for you at home to 
understand our ignorance on this side of the water of the 
storm rolling up from the Near East. To illustrate 
how completely we were in the dark, when a friend living 
near us on the island of Noirmoutier telephoned me on 
the morning of August I, 1914, that she and her children 
were starting at noon to join her husband in their chateau 
in the south of France, as .the mobilization would make 
travelling impossible twenty-four hours later, not only 
did I think her panic-stricken, but I told her so. I went 
at once to her villa to help her pack, laughed at her fears, 
and tried to persuade her to stay, not believing her when 
she assured me that she had the terrible facts from one who 
knew. She begged me to take a thousand francs from 
her store, predicting that we should have trouble about 
getting money later, and not at all liking the idea of 
leaving me with only a little over three hundred francs 
on hand. I told her that our month's supplies would 
be sent to us on Monday, the third, and took the lofty 
tone that no matter what might take place in Europe, 
American credit would be all right. How often in the 
coming weeks did I regret that rejected thousand francs! 
Twice we saw our last ten-franc piece melt away in pay- 
ment for bread and postage stamps; everything else we 
had on credit, thanks to the moratorium, which cut both 
ways. 

It was a chilly, gusty day, that first of August, 1914, 
and my spirits sank as I walked home to Le Gaillardin 
after seeing my friend start at noon. A sight not calcu- 
lated to cheer me was the setting sail of a yacht carrying 
a party of young reservists to the mainland. As her sails 
filled, and she bent to the breeze, an Abbe, standing on 
the rocky point jutting out into the bay, lifted his hand 
in blessing, and the men on the white deck bared their 
heads as his words of benediction came to them across 
the dancing waves. I stopped to say a word to the 
mother of one of the boys, herself the daughter of a 
famous marshal, and her evident anxiety depressed me 
still more. Her son fell gloriously last November, and 
three are missing from the gay band of his friends who 
used to fill her pretty cottage with laughter and song. 



But on reaching home I was reassured by the complete 
scepticism shown by my husband and one of our friends 
who was there with him. A friend? I might more 
truthfully say brother, so dear was he to us. How 
could any one imagine, they insisted, that Germany, with 
almost all the commerce of the world in her hands, pros- 
perous to a fabulous degree, could be so short-sighted 
as to bring on a war.? It was a woman's scare, they told 
me, and I was so glad to be reassured that I cheerfully 
swallowed the snub. Just the same, should there be 
trouble, our friend, although past the military age, 
would be obliged to report at headquarters, and in order 
to avoid any delay he decided to take the afternoon boat, 
and run up to Paris for a few days. We went to see him 
off at five, and his last words were that he should be back 
in a week's time. — He fell a year ago last September, 
charging superbly at the head of his men. 

We left the boat-pier, and walked under the trees to 
the main road which runs straight in to the town of Noir- 
moutier, about two miles inland. As we stepped out 
from the shade of the ilexes the strong west wind bore 
to our ears the terrible sound of the tocsin, hurried, 
fateful, threatening. It was the call to a general mobili- 
zation. No more doubts now. 

The next image that I recall is that of a young Parisian, 
rather a dandy, good-looking, well-dressed; he had 
bought a Swampscott dory from my husband, and came 
to Le Gaillardin the following afternoon, his six-year-old 
boy holding tightly to his hand. There were a few out- 
standing bills, he said, that had not been settled, and he 
wanted to pay them up. My husband replied that these 
small charges had not yet been presented to him, that 
they amounted to very little anyhow, and had better 
wait for the present. "But I am starting to-morrow," 
persisted the Parisian. "Then leave them till you come 
back," was my husband's answer. The young man 
looked down at his boy, whose big, solemn eyes never 
left his father's face; then he threw back his head with a 
laugh, and said so gayly that the child must have thought 
it some dull, grown-up joke not worth puzzling over, 
"And what if I never come back.?" A quick pain caught 
me in my throat, and my husband's lips trembled; neither 
of us spoke. They went away, and I, watching them 
through the window, saw the little boy stumble as they 
walked along the path to the gate; he could not see 
where to place his feet, for his eyes were always on his 
father's face. 

I recall another father. It was a late afternoon in the 
November of the same year; we were walking home 
across the fields, and stopped to say a word to a peasant 
ploughing, his two boys of ten and twelve beside him. 
In reply to some remark about the failing light he said: 
"It's not for the fun of the thing that we're working so 
late. They are going to take Cocotte off in the morning" 
(here the younger boy turned brusquely and hid his face 
on the mare's shoulder), "and I follow next day. The 
kids must learn how to plough; they and the wife will 
have to do that; I shan't be here to help them see to the 
early potatoes." We gave some socks and one of the 
sweaters that our knitting women had already begun to 
turn out by hundreds, thanks to Boston aid, and many 
a time during that long, dark winter we saw those two 
red-headed little chaps pluckily doing their work; when 
a good potato harvest rewarded their efforts we felt a 
personal glow of delight. 

Helen Choate Prince. 
{To be continued.) 



"Tell me not in idle numbers, 
Life is but an empty dream;" 

Sandwiches of sliced cucumbers 
Make it something better seem. 



52 



BAZAAR DAILY 



BAZAAR DAILY 

Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
Editor, ARLO BATES 

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 

William Dean Howells 
Alice Bkown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 

Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 

The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the Allied 
Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
taken at the booth. 



COPYRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 

Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 

At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band and Madame 
EstrelHta from 4 to 6 p.m. Last appearance. 

In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
new and wonderful war pictures. 

Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of James 
Barnes, Whitmarsh Golf Club, Philadelphia. 



Paul Revere Hall, 3. — Miss Columbia's Greeting to 
the Children of the Allies; Dance by the pupils of Mrs. 
Lilla Viles Wyman. 

8. — "The Cotter's Saturday Night," given by the 
Scottish Musical Comedy Company. 

9.15. — A lecture on the American Field Ambulance 
work at the front, by Mr. Luke Doyle, who has been 
in active service in the Field Ambulance. 

Main Hall, 9.45. — Miss Mary Desmond, soloist, will 
sing "God Bless the Prince of Wales," with chorus. 

The Post Office authorities are now giving special 
service to the mailing of the Daily, for which we wish 
to express our thanks. 

The postal cards made in the trenches by the soldiers 
are selling admirably. The choice of them brought $100. 
It is doubtful if it is to be sent through the mail with a 
one-cent stamp on it. 



The life-buoy of the Lusltania, which hangs in the 
Main Hall, is one of the most poignantly suggestive of all 
the relics in the Bazaar. It is a sort of historic document 
which for generations will tell its pathetic story, and is 
far more eloquent than anything that can be put into 
words. It will be sold by auction on Saturday night 
from the stage, by Mr. John R. Rathom, the editor of 
the Providence Journal. 



The Thistle and Shamrock Booth has for Saturday an 
attractive programme of the folk dances, songs, and 
games of France. 

The Canadian War Exhibit is rather of solid historic 
than of sensational interest, but there are a good many 
thrills in it. The jewelled fragments of glass from 
assassinated Rheims, the fragments of a Zeppelin destroyed 
in England, the helmet of one of the Kaiser's guard, the 
first machine-gun captured by the Canadians, and so 
on for an astonishing list of mementoes and souvenirs. 
The poster show is in itself richly worth a visit, and the 
whole collection one of the important features of the 
Bazaar. 



The Editor's Callers. 

"Of course social honesty is impossible," Dick observed, 
repeating the old statement with an apparent conviction 
that he had discovered a great and original truth. "It 
is too bad that we should all lie so continuously." 

The Editor regarded him curiously. 

"So Mrs. Noah was remarking to a friend," he returned, 
"when that eminent shipwright and voyager, her husband, 
sent Shem to tell her that in ten minutes the gang-plank 
of the Ark would be hauled in." 

"Even if it has been said," Dick persisted with un- 
diminished gravity, "it is just as true. It doesn't take 
the truth out of a thing to say it over." 

"Hum! Doesn't it.^ I am not so sure of that." 

"But aren't our commonest phrases lies?" 

"You must remember, my dear Dick," the other 
reminded him, "that no man is obliged to convict him- 
self." 

The caller evidently did not understand the delicate 
insinuation, but went on stolidly. 

"Now when I came in I said I hoped I saw you well; 
but I really didn't care a button whether I saw you well 
or not." 

"Thank you; I didn't for a moment suppose you did; 
and, what is more to the point, you did not mean that I 
should. A lie is an attempt to deceive; and you were 
not trying to deceive me." 

"But what I said wasn't true." 

The Editor regarded him with a look which said 
plainly enough: "In what words of one syllable can I 
make him understand?" 

"My dear Dick," he said, "you are evidently so anxious 
to prove yourself a liar that it seems cruel to thwart you. 
Suppose we grant that on general grounds, and now 
stick to the particular instance. You meant me to 
think that you were not so boorish as to omit the ordinary 
conventions of courtesy; and your words conveyed that 
intention perfectly. When you say what you mean, 
and what you mean is true, I fail to see where the lie 
comes in." 

Dick's rather obstinate jaw began to look more firm. 

"But I say it wasn't true that I cared how you were." 

"It also was not true that your aunt's cat has six legs. 
You meant to say that as much as you meant to say you 
cared about my health." 

Dick showed evidence of growing bewilderment. 

"Look here," he said, "are you really trying to say 
something, or is this just your usual guff?" 

" It is my not un-usual endeavor to have people employ 
terms properly. It is so stupid to call a convention a lie, 
because it isn't meant to convey what it might literally 
mean. We give an arbitrary meaning to a sound, and 
make it stand for a house or a tree or whatever you will. 
We take a phrase and make it stand for a social idea. 
The two processes are practically the same." 

"But the phrases mean something else." 

"They might, of course; but the same thing is often 
true of the sounds. What is a tree, a plant or a thing to 
keep your boot in shape? Do I lie if I say I have a lot 
of trees in my dressing-room?" 

"Why, of course not; but that is because we know what 
you mean." 

"You know what I mean when I say I hope you are 
well, or write 'Dear Sir,' or send a servant to say 'not 
at home.' I knew a detestable old woman in the country 
once, who, when she saw an unwelcome caller coming up 
the avenue, told the maid to say she was out, and then 
whipped out of the back door for two minutes to make 
it true." 

"Well," declared Dick, uncomprehendingly, "she did 
make it true." 



BAZAAR DAILY 



53 



"Nonsense! She made a perfectly honest conven- 
tionality into a lie. By taking the words literally, and 
then being only momentarily out, she turned them into a 
falsehood, and a very sneaking one at that. Besides, 
she was fool enough to lie to herself." 

"She was rather a sneak," Dick assented. "When 
I lie, I do it straight from the shoulder." 

"'Lie,'" echoed the Editor, impatiently, "I am not 
talking about your lying. That, as they said so often 
in the old novels, is between you and Heaven. I am 
trying to get it through your thick head that you don't 
know a lie when you see one. Do you call it a lie to begin 
a letter 'Dear Sir' or to end it 'Yours truly'.'"' 

"Why, not exactly," was the hesitating answer; "but 
that is different." 

"Oh, feminine excuse! Do try to be sensible, if you 
can without bursting a blood-vessel in the effort. Speech 
is full of phrases that have come to have specialized mean- 
ings, and are so used without a trace of anything else. 
You meet a man and tell him it is a fine day. If you 
mean that to be taken literally, it is an insult, for it ac- 
cuses him of being so great a fool as not to have perceived 
the fact already. You mean really to tell him that you 
are friendly, and do not wish to pass without letting him 
know it." 

"But that is true, anyway," persisted Dick, whose 
wits were certainly never intended to shine on intellectual 
race-tracks. 

The Editor made a gesture of impatience, but he con- 
trolled himself, and went on. 

"When I say 'good-evening' do you expect me seriously 
to have considered whether I really am interested that 
your evening shall be good ; Am I lying, because I tell 
you, in abbreviated form, that I do.'" 

"Why, I never thought 'good-evening' meant that," 
Dick returned, staring. 

"It doesn't; it only says that, if you go to taking an- 
other meaning of the words, as you might take another 
for the tree in my boot. It really means the same thing 
that 'hallo' does, only it says it more politely." 

Dick regarded him with earnest eyes. 

"I suppose," he said, "that I say a lot of thin 
out knowing what I mean." 

"Most people do," the Editor returned, 
ambiguously; "but then perhaps you don't mean them, 
after all." 



s with- 
smiling 



To My "Poilus." 

Oh, my poilus, bearded, rugged, 

"Bleuets" ' scarce to manhood budded, 
Whose blue waves, fame-crested, break to-day, — 

Worthier tongues than mine have sung you; 

But let me, who've lived among you. 
Known and loved you well, my tribute pay. 

Deafened by the roar and rattle, 

Dazed and stricken from the battle, 
Stretcher-borne, and limping, in they come; 

But from wounded and from weary, 

Comes the greeting ever cheery: 
"On Us aura, (a marche hien,"' from every one. 

Haunted by the fierce attacking. 

Food and drink and sleep long lacking, 
Yet each still claiming, but half-healed, to do his share; 

Quick to lighten every labor, 

Giving to each task a flavor 
Of his piquant poilu wit and temper rare. 

Though he hates the thought of tubbing, 

And his matitudinal scrubbing 
May be wanting both in detail and in scope, 

Yet an extra busy morning 

Finds him zealously adorning 
All his comrades with an extra share of soap.' 



You may catch him in his nighty 

On some expedition flighty, 
Such as waving to the Tommies as they pass; 

But for the potato-peeling, 

You are apt to find him stealing — 
Though it's not his usual habit — in to Mass. 

Glorying in the linen-changing, 
■' From an early hour he's ranging 
Far and wide, shirtless, in sockless feet; 

And from dull routine escaping, 

Round his person coyly draping, 
Comme une voile d'epouse,* his weekly sheet! 

For some cigarettes he'll barter 

All his daily share of "rata,"* 
Which is truly called a ''sale hidoche" ^ ; 

But he'll fight you to a finish, 

If his pinard'' you diminish. 
Though he styles this precious liquid "pliitol moche."^ 

Unashamed of the detection 

Of some samples of refection 
Which he's hidden for safe-keeping in his bed, 

He conceals these peccadilloes 

Underneath his comrade's pillows, 
And will smilingly invite you to his spread. 

Through the cure's loud imploring, 

He may be discreetly snoring, 
Yet he faces death, high-hearted, undismayed; 

And his sharply moral strictures 

On some extra moving-pictures 
Would put even Billy Sunday in the shade. 

Eloquent his perorations 

On those placed in lofty stations, 
Governmental, these he calls "des gros legumes*^ ^: 

And a visit of inspection 

Fills him with a dire dejection, 
And with prophecies most lamentable of doom. 

But his Lieutenant's a hero, 

And his Capitaine a Nero, 
Singing ballads 'midst the bursting shell and bomb; 

And he's proud to tell their story 

For the honor and the glory 
Of the leaders of Verdun and of the Somme. 

- Hiding suffering with joking, 

'Neath the knife serenely smoking. 
Courteous and grateful, kind and brave; 

Oh, my poilus, who'd not love you. 

Praying all the Powers above you 
To confound your foes and France to save! 

Holding death in grim derision, 
France triumphant in your vision, 
Well we know your breed, for once we knew 
How, of every age and station, 
For the saving of a nation, 
Fought, and bled, and died our "boys in blue." 

Clara Bowdoin VV'inthrop. 
'The boys of the Classes of 19IS and I916 are called "bleuets." The new 
French uniform is blue. 

■"We'll get them yet, things are going well." "On lis aura" is now in 
France the universal expression, and one of the newest and most famous car- 
toons has it for a title. 

J He helps to wash their faces. < Like a bridal veil, s Rations. •Horrid 
mess. I Wine. < Rather weak or poor. « "Big potatoes." 



From a Set of Limericks on the Thames Villages. 

Datchett. 

Said a rat to a hen, once, in Datchett: 
"Throw an egg to me, dear, and I'll catch it." 
"I thank you, good sir; 
But I greatly prefer 
To sit on it here till I hatch it!" 

Medmenham Abbey. 
Few hairs had the Vicar of Medmenham, 
Few hairs, and he still was a sheddin' 'em. 
But had none remained 
He would not have complained, 
Because there was far too much red in 'em. 

K. D. W. 



54 



BAZAAR DAILY 



Why Italy Put off Fighting. 

Many Americans naturally wondered at Italy's long 
delay in entering the war on the side of the Allies. They 
wondered further that she did not declare war on Ger- 
many until this last summer. They imputed to her mere 
sordid self-interest. The facts, however, do not warrant 
any such harsh opinion; for they show that it would 
have'been suicidal for Italy to break with the Central 
Powers in August, 1914 — and suicide cannot be required 
of a nation except when all is lost, even honor. IVIerely 
as a practical question, Italy was undeniably right in 
waiting until she was strong enough both to protect 
herself and to bring valid help to the Allies, before she 
entered the conflict. 

When the war broke out, she was in a state of military 
destitution. Her campaign in Tripolitania and with the 
Turks had exhausted her supplies and left large gaps 
needing to be filled in her army. Experts doubted with 
reason whether she could prevent the Austrians, led by 
German commanders, from breaking through her frontier 
and overrunning Lombardy and Venetia in the early 
autumn of 1914- Such a disaster would have been 
not only Irreparable to Italy herself, but it might have 
plunged the cause of the Allies into a panic. So Italy's 
prudence was of the utmost benefit to all her friends as 
well as to herself. 

Having replenished her equipment, renewed and mobil- 
ized her army, she denounced the treaty which bound her 
in the Triple Alliance, and attacked Austria in May, 1915. 
Foreign critics who wondered why her fresh troops did 
not sweep the Austrians before them and dictate terms 
of peace to the Emperor Francis Joseph in Vienna were 
almost as fatuous as they would have been if they had 
wondered why Italy did not march her army across the 
Adriatic; for the almost impregnable Alpine wall which 
the Italians had to surmount in the north was scarcely 
less difficult than the sea itself. 

Besides these military considerations which held her 
back, she was entangled in economic relations with Ger- 
many which, of themselves, would have been sufficient 
to justify her in not breaking with that ruthless Power. 
Only since the war began have foreigners, and many 
Italians also, understood to what an alarming extent 
Italy had become the commercial and industrial vassal 
of Germany. In no other country, except perhaps in 
Belgium, had the clandestine invasion of the Germans, 
ironically called "peaceful penetration," been carried 
so far. 

Thirty years ago the Germans supplied a great deal 
of capital to promote factories, electrical establishments, 
steamship lines, and many other forms of economic de- 
velopment. They founded the great Banca Com- 
merciale, which almost dictated the directions in which 
Italy's industries should expand, because it loaned money 
to the projects which it secretly approved as helpful to 
Germany, and withheld it from others. This bank 
prohibited munitions factories, for instance, in order 
to make the Italians dependent upon Germany for their 
war supplies. It floated navigation companies, but took 
care that they should not compete with the Hamburg- 
Amerika and the North German Lloyd. It not only 
controlled much of the capital which nourished Italy's 
material growth, but it had trusty and experienced 
Germans at the head of each concern, or, if not visibly 
at the head, in order not to excite too much suspicion 
they were at the really vital points. And just as has 
happened in this country, the Germans saw to it that 
politicians who represented them, with or without dis- 
guise, should be elected to Parliament. "Peaceful 
penetration" with a vengeance! 



When the war broke out, therefore, Italy woke up to 
realize that a large part of the sources of her wealth was 
in German hands. To declare war on Germany at once 
would have deprived her of much of that wealth sorely 
needed for carrying on the war. If she had expelled the 
Germans who were managing the commercial and in- 
dustrial enterprises, where could she have found among 
her own people experts to replace them at a moment's 
notice.^ The passengers on an ocean liner might con- 
ceivably find the officers so obnoxious that they would 
like to throw them overboard; but they would refrain, 
knowing that there would be nobody left to steer the 
ship or run the engines. This was Italy's plight in regard 
to Germany in the summer of 1914. 

But even if Italy had not been so dependent on German 
experts and initiative, she could not lightly adopt a 
policy which might cut the ties which bound her trade 
to Germany. Her statesmen had to look forward and 
plan for conditions after the war. It was certain that, 
however the war ended, Germany would continue to be 
an important market for Italian products. So it was the 
duty of her statesmen to make the rupture, if it had 
to come, as little harmful as possible to Italy's permanent 
interests. 

Thus it will be seen that Italy's motives for going to 
war with Germany differed intrinsically from her hos- 
tility toward Austria, and required very different action. 
Just as she was obliged to wait until she could put her 
army into condition before she declared war on Austria, 
so she had to safeguard her industries and her economic 
concerns before she broke with Germany. Her tradi- 
tional attitude toward her Teutonic allies also differed 
widely. Although she had come to feel the weight of 
German influence as a burden, she still remembered her 
league with Prussia in 1866, which had resulted in the 
recovery of Venetia; and she had always cherished a 
vague expectation, illusory as I believe, that Protestant 
Germany would protect her, if danger arose, from any 
attempt of the Roman Catholic Powers to restore the 
Pope to his temporal throne. Austria, on the other 
hand, was Italy's hereditary enemy. From 1815 to 1866 
Austria had upheld Despotism, her own and that of 
her satellites, in the Peninsula; and when the frontier 
line was drawn between Austria and Free Italy, it left 
several Italian districts still under Austrian dominion. 
More than this, the Austrians, in collusion with the 
Germans, had drawn the frontiers so that all the ap- 
proaches into Italy lay wide open to Austrian invaders, 
whereas if the Italians should invade Austria, they were 
met everywhere by natural defences of immense strength. 
Italy could never rest without anxiety until her northern 
and eastern borders were rectified. 

Of the great value on the military side of Italy's co- 
operation with the Allies, I need not speak. For over 
a year and a half she has kept a large Austrian force busy, 
steadily wearing down the Austrian troops in number 
and diminishing their supplies of food and munitions. 
On the moral side, her service has likewise been incal- 
culable. By refusing to throw in her lot with her former 
Teutonic allies, she disposed forever of the Teutonic 
pretext that Germany and Austria had had the war 
forced upon them and that they were fighting on the 
defensive. If Italy's testimony stood alone, it would 
suffice to transmit the truth to posterity. 

William Roscoe Thayer. 



Flattery may be laid on with a trowel, but truth must 
be applied with a camel's-hair brush. 



Where ignorance may kiss, 'tis folly to be wise. 



BAZAAR DAILY 



55 



The Wounded Dream. 

He was a very cheerful little Dream, and he had all 
night long been making happy a wretched Belgian orphan 
pitifully lodged in a corner of a hovel blown to pieces by 
shells. As he was flying back home over the trenches, 
a fragment of shell struck him. It dashed him into the 
mud, and quite ruined his shoulder, so that flying would 
always be a trouble. When he managed to get himself 
out of the mire and struggle homeward, he was a very 
battered and forlorn creature indeed. His mishap did 
not make him any less cheery, for if you are a bright 
dream, cheery you stay always; but after his accident 
he was sent to the hospitals. There, of course, it would 
seem natural for him to have been wounded, and nobody 
would mind. 

So it came about that one autumn midnight the little 
hurt Dream was cheering what remained of a big English 
Sergeant after the shrapnel and the surgeons were done 
with him. The Dream had showed the sick man happy 
pictures of childhood, and had cleverly spread rosy clouds 
before painful episodes of sin or sorrow in later life. 
There had been too many of these, for the Sergeant had 
been both wild and wicked; but the Dream was there 
to comfort, and for that night at least the soldier saw 
nothing of his past to pain him. At last, when the Dream 
and the Sergeant seemed to be lying out on the grass 
under an apple-tree down in Sussex, — a tree gnarled 
and crooked and famous for the sweetness of its fruit, a 
tree where many an afternoon the boy that was to be the 
soldier and be shot in Flanders had lain in the sunshine 
and munched the red globes, — they fell to talking. 

"I haven't been comfortable before since I was blown 
to pieces there in the trench," the soldier observed. 
"I don't seem to ache at all to-night." 

"I'm very glad," the Dream answered. "Of course 
that's what I'm here for. It's my business." 

"You've been wounded yourself," said the Sergeant. 

"Oh, yes; but I don't mind it now I'm used to it. 
It was very unpleasant when it happened — especially 
falling into the mud. I don't believe you have any idea 
how a dream hates to get into mud." 

"It must be a queer go," the other commented with 
a smile. "I'm not over fond of mud myself — especially 
when you have to march in it up to your knees." 

"You'll never have to do that again," suggested the 
Dream, softly. 

"Right you are," assented the big Sergeant. "With 
both legs gone and only one arm, and one eye keeping 
them company somewhere, I certainly am out of the 
marching column." 

He said it quite cheerily, for the influence of his little 
companion held him, and would not let him be sad. 

"Perhaps," went on the little Dream, "you'll never 
get round again, anyway." 

"That's what I think myself, little chap. Out of my 
one eye I saw a look the surgeon gave the nurse this 
afternoon, and I got the creeps all right. It was my 
marching orders." 

"Well, perhaps that wouldn't be so bad. Sergeant. 
It's going to be terribly hard if you live on. Why, even 
I, a dream, find this smash in my shoulder a great nuisance 
whenever I fly; and you — " 

"Well," the Sergeant broke in with a grin, "you must 
remember how much less of me there is to be bothered 
than there was. I'm not good at mathematics, or I'd 
reckon what per cent of me the surgeons have left. It's 
a lot less than half." 

"Do you really want to go on living?" the little Dream 
asked. 

The big man hesitated. 



"The truth is, little chap," he said in an altered voice, 
"I don't; but I'm not too sure that it wouldn't be better 
than the other thing. I've been a pretty rotten lot in 
my day." 

"And you're afraid of what might happen to you if 
you don't go on living.?" 

"Well, it's this way. I don't know what's there, and 
I do know I've deserved a pretty stiff hauling over the 
coals. I could make up my mind better to face it, if I 
knew the worst of it." 

"Why not think, then, of facing the best.-"' asked the 
Dream, cheerfully. "At least you deserve something for 
giving up your life in a good cause." 

"I don't know as there's any great credit in that. Of 
course a man can't stand by and see his country have her 
throat cut. Besides, there was Belgium; I was never 
such a blackguard that I wouldn't fight for a square deal 
to the under dog." 

The Dream smiled on him sweetly and reassuringly. 

"I think," he said, with a look that comforted the 
Sergeant like the sunshine of a perfect October noon, 
" that even if in the place where you will go if you never 
wake up any more you find you are the under dog, you'd 
be likely to find somebody to fight for you." 

"Do you really think so.?" asked the soldier. 

"I'm sure of it," said the little Dream. 

The big Sergeant lay quiet for a time, thinking in- 
tently. Then he looked at the little wounded Dream with 
earnest eyes. 

"I've a great mind not to wake up," he said. 

"I wouldn't," responded the little Dream. "Why 
should you.?" 

Egdon Craige. 



Fifty Doggerel Charades. 

XXXVI. 
My first my next my whole; 

And then in pain, 
Cried out my third 

Once and again. 

XXXVII. 

When night was black as is my first. 
Stole forth to prey my first reversed; 
When night was colored like my next. 
My next reversed by plunder vexed; 
My whole by day and night alike 
Went forth to plunder, slay, and strike. 

XXXVIII. 

My whole is my second; the whole of the law 
From my first reversed your skill may draw. 
Turn second around, and from its side 
You may draw red wine in a flowing tide. 

XXXIX. 

My first I despise; as my next do I stand 

To condemn it where'er it appear; 
That the sentiment often attached to my whole 

Is my first, I have sometimes the fear. 

XL. 
My first a mother, but a curse, alas! 

The next comes floating on the flood of years; 
My first would stay the stream that strives to pass; 

But comes my whole, and naught is left but tears. 

XLI. 
My first and fourth are still the same, 

Though looking different ways; 
My next begins and ends my whole. 

And in my third still stays; 
Half of my first and fourth it is, — 

The other half we drink; 
My third is but five hundred less 

Than all the land, I think. 
My whole was a fast girl of yore, 
Who trouble made and woe galore. 



56 



BAZAAR DAILY 



The Loyal Legion. 

(An incident founded on fact.) 
Within the German prison pen 

The word was passed, — is it surprising: 
That roused by Roger Casement's men 

The Irish patriots were rising. 
The word was passed and as it sped 

The stealthy summons circulated — 
"Your turn has come to play the man, 

Speak, Kamerad, and you are slated." 
Thus from the Teuton web was spun 

The Irish Legion, recreant blighters. 
And counting on each mother's son 

To emulate the fiercest fighters. 
The Teutons furnished these recruits 

By hope of Erin's freedom flattered 
With spending money and new suits 

In place of khaki stained and tattered. 
Because they looked such perfect Huns 

These men from Limerick, Cork, and Kerry, 
Ere they were sent as food for guns, 

Were given one chance to be merry. 
To see Berlin, where Kultur reigns, 

Would make these new compatriots wiser. 
Forgetting Tipperary strains 

In one united "Hoch der Kaiser!" 
The loyal legion took the hint. 

The money jingling in their pockets, 
They pledged the Kaiser without stint 

Until their spirits soared like rockets. 
And one a little worse for wear, 

Who haply hankered for a shindy, 
Exclaimed, "Begorry! let's see where 

The Bosches call Unter den Lindy." 
Away they strode, and as they marched 

Their rampant spirits kept on soaring. 
They halted when their throats felt parched. 

And erelong they were simply roaring! 
Arriving at the Avenue, 

Chief glory of their foster nation, 
They broke into a song or two 

In token of their jubilation. 
For now that they had slaked their thirst, 

Their souls were yearning for a ditty. 
"Rule — Rule Britannia!" proudly burst 

On the bewildered German city. 
The listeners upon the street 

For one brief moment thought they liked it, 
Then with antagonistic feet 

Toward the blithe procession hiked it. 
The legion could not understand 

Why epithets and blows were showered. 
"God save the King," sang all the band 

Until the last was overpowered. 
They went to prison against their will 

For punishment, perhaps sepulture. 
An Irishman stays Irish still 

In spite of foreign coat or Kultur. 

Robert Grant. 



A Reading-Lesson from Charlotte Cushman. 

[The following pleasant glimpse of noted people is from the pen of the late 
Arnold Barges Johnson, who for about twenty-five years was the private" 
secretary and personal friend of Charles Sumner. Sumner died in his arms. 
For more than forty years he held the third office on the United States Light- 
house Board, and was held, at home and abroad, an authority in pharology. 
He had note as a scientist, and was one of the earliest experimenters in under- 
sea signalling. He died in Boston in February, 1915.] 

Senator Sumner's study and bedroom were in the 
second story of his large old-fashioned house. The rooms 
adjoined, with communicating doors. The study had 
two working-desks, the Senator's and mine. His was at 
one end, while mine at the other was by the door which 
opened into the bedroom. 

It was the Senator's habit to have me read the morn- 
ing paper to him while he was dressing. The door 
between the rooms would be thrown open, and I, seated 
at my desk facing the wall, would read in a loud, pene- 
trating, monotonous voice the headlines and such items 
as I deemed of interest. The Senator, meanwhile, would 
be moving about as he dressed, and would call out to me 
from time to time: "Enough, give me the next." Then 



I would break off and turn to another column, which I 
read in the same catalogue-like voice. 

One morning, at about eight o'clock, when the per- 
formance was at its height, the butler appeared, announc- 
ing: "A lady to see the Senator." "Show her up," said 
Mr. Sumner. "Proceed." I continued my recital of 
the day's news, with hardly more of an interruption 
than a wave of my hand toward a chair and a bow, as the 
lady entered the room. 

In a few minutes the Senator came into the study, and, 
as he caught sight of his visitor, was profuse in his apolo- 
gies. "Ah! My dear Miss Cushman! That you should 
have been brought up here, and that I should have kept 
you waiting! Allow me." And he would have at once 
escorted her to the drawing-room on the floor below, 
but she would have none of the ceremony, and without 
delay struck into the object of her visit. As I recall it, 
it was in behalf of a nephew, either to procure him ad- 
mission into the army, or his discharge; which, I do not 
remember. The Senator promised his aid, and, leaving 
certain papers with him, she promptly took her leave, the 
Senator preceding her downstairs, and opening the door 
for her himself. On his return to the study, he asked: 
"Why didn't you tell me who had called.?" "I did not 
know myself," I answered; "and I don't now, for I did 
not catch her name. May I ask.'"' "Why, that was 
Charlotte Cushman, the great actress." And during 
breakfast, which was at once ' announced, he told me 
much of her extraordinary career. 

A few nights later, I was in a Pullman car on my way 
to New York. Passing through the car from the diner, 
I saw, through the open door of a compartment, a lady 
seated before the mirror, a maid brushing her heavy white 
hair. I had hardly found my seat when the porter told 
me that a lady wished to speak with me; and as I looked 
up I saw at the end of the car a maid beckoning. When 
I reached her, she said: "Madame desires to speak with 
Monsieur." I followed her into the compartment, and 
the white-haired lady faced me. It was Charlotte 
Cushman. 

She motioned me to a seat, and without preliminaries 
began. "I saw you at Senator Sumner's the other 
morning, and heard you read. You are his secretary, I 
believe?" I bowed. "Young man, I have sufficient 
esteem for the Senator to feel sorry that he should undergo 
the daily- inffiction of such reading. May I ask why 
there should have been such an intolerable performance.?" 
Overcome with embarrassment, I tried to explain that 
the Senator had taken much pains to drill me in that 
manner of reading; that, as far as I could, I gave him 
just what he asked. She listened, and then, picking up 
the evening paper, said: "I will show you how it should 
have been done, and if you profit by it, I think Mr. 
Sumner will be grateful." 

And with the maid still at work on her wonderful hair, 
she read aloud the headlines from the paper she held in 
her hand. And such reading! Every word was clear- 
cut, every word was given its proper intonation, its due 
weight and emphasis in the sentence; each sentence con- 
veying not only its meaning, but the subtlest shade of 
meaning; and all given in her round, full, sonorous voice, 
that was of itself music. As she finished, she said: 

"I hope you will not forget this, and will imitate it 
when next you read to the Senator." 

And I, bowing over her hand, said: "I shall never for- 
get my reading-lesson from Charlotte Cushman; but 
I can never hope to attain to the perfection of my teacher." 

When I told the Senator of my adventure, he, laughing 
heartily, said: "We will leave oratory to Charlotte Cush- 
man, and will continue our newspaper-reading in our own 
style." 



DEC \Sim 



BAZAAR DAILY 



10 Cents 



BOSTON. MONDAY, DECEMBER 18, 1916 



No. 8 




•Curse 'em— and just when I needed that sage for the stuffing of our duck! 



58 



BAZAAR DAILY 



An Appeal to Humanity. 

The European war reminds one, with startling emphasis, 
how far behind the Angel of Death and Pain the Angel 
of Mercy lags. The common purpose of all humane 
Americans, in this crisis, is to spur forward this some- 
what indolent Angel of Mercy, and to endeavor to lessen 
the sad truth of Hood's familiar words: — 
"Alas for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun." 

Our business now is with the living, and not with the dead. 
The heroic dead have been borne to the highest heaven, 
from the field of battle, as in chariots of fire; they have 
received a kind of apotheosis; they are already numbered 
with famous men in glory everlasting. Those little 
wooden crosses in Flanders and elsewhere, more moving 
than the stateliest mausoleum, are symbols of a tran- 
scendent experience forever secure; the heroic dead chant 
"in the cathedral of immensity" the triumphant song 
"The way of the cross is the way of light." 

We cannot agree with Byron in his view of the battle- 
field:— 

"Alp turned him from the sickening sight, 
Never had shaken his nerves in fight, 
But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
Scorched with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain. 
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain." 

Pain is the one great foe against which the medical pro- 
fession, that rarest combination of science and humanity, 
arrays all its forces, pain and the source of pain. If not 
overcome and expelled, pain means death. To weep over 
the dead who have won eternal freedom, while doing 
nothing for the living in their distress, is never anything 
higher than sad superstition; usually it is of the same stuff 
as the cheapest insincerity. 

Dr. John Brown, in his little classic, "Rab and his 
Friends," has some fine words on sympathy. Physicians, 
Dr. Brown says, "get over their professional horrors, 
and into their proper work; and in them pity as an emo- 
tion ending in itself, or at least in tears and long-drawn 
breath, lessens, while pity as a motive is quickened, and 
gains power and purpose." It is this kind of pity or 
sympathy that is now our great need; any other kind 
offering itself as a substitute for practical help merits only 
reprobation. 

The sufferings caused by this war are simply unimagi- 
nably vast and terrible. One must not confine the effort 
to represent them to the mutilated forms at the front, nor 
to the weary days of convalescence in the hospital, nor 
to the cripples that are returning in place of the men who 
went forth in the pride and strength of youth, nor to the 
endless heartache, inside the iron ring of heroism, of those 
whose brave and beloved can never come back to them. 
Beyond all this lies an area of suffering that will persist 
through the life of another generation. I mean the 
suffering that must come to the children of the dead and 
the disabled. Here is a human sorrow aggravated by 
acute economic misery. Bitter struggles must follow this 
war, of mothers and children, weakened by grief, to keep 
the wolf from the door. Terrible will the world seem to 
them, as they are forced to face it, that ordains a struggle 
so pitiless for the wives and children of those who gave 
their lives that freedom might not perish from the earth. 

It is this unmerited woe that falls upon the families 
of heroic men that is the most moving of appeals. These 
soldiers of the Allied Armies are fighting and dying, and 
undergoing mutilation, that tyranny may not again 
overrun the earth; that the government of free peoples 
shall not come to an end; that the organization of science 
detached from the impulse of humanity, and turned into 



an engine of death, shall meet eternal defeat; that faith 
in a moral Deity and in a moral race of men may not be 
extinguished; and that the civilization won by all the 
ages of honor may not be forever lost. 

When stripped to the bone, this is the cause for which 
the Allied Armies contend. They are fighting for the 
moral forces in human nature and in our human world 
against the Teutonic nations whose organization draws 
its warrant from the animal struggle in the sub-human 
sphere, and in the black belief that "War is the Father 
of the universe." The Allied hosts are fighting the idea 
that governments may use, for their own brutal ends, and 
without the consent of the governed, their peoples like 
cattle in the slaughter-house; they are contending against 
the theory that rulers are justified in systematically misin- 
forming and misleading those whom they rule, in calling 
them to rejoice in the shadow of victory when the shadow 
is the shadow of death. 

General Grant, in our Civil War, used to tell the Con- 
federates that it would be for the highest good of the 
South to be beaten by the North. At that time that was 
a hard saying for the brave Southern people to believe, 
and few of them were able to believe it. To-day every 
wise mind in that great and gallant section of our common 
country sees clearly the truth of the prophetic remark 
made by the magnanimous Northern commander. It is 
for the interest of the Teutonic peoples that they shall be 
beaten in this war. Germany is the monumental example 
of a great people misled, misinformed, victimized by rulers 
as contemptuous of individual freedom at home as they 
are ruthless abroad. The awakening will come; the 
mills of the gods grind slow, but they grind. In the 
day of Teutonic defeat, the Teutonic peoples will begin 
to win their freedom and the rights that belong to man 
as man. 

The fundamental issue of this war is between a moral 
and an unmoral civilization; between faith in a moral 
world and hypocritical assent to the order of the world as 
moral, concealing the real conviction that nothing reigns 
in human affairs and in the universe but brute force. 
In giving to the cause of the Allies our support, moral and 
economic, we are aiding the highest forces and hopes of 
mankind, and we are opposing in our strength the mili- 
tarism that has made a covenant with death and a league 
with hell. 

As an American citizen of British birth, I have till now 
neither written nor spoken on this tragedy of humanity. 
I have refrained because I desired to keep my American 
citizenship inviolate, and because I did not wish to follow 
the example of other American citizens of foreign birth. 
Now that the end of the war, though still far distant, is 
within sight, and since there is little likelihood that the 
United States will be drawn into this conflict, one may 
express one's thoughts and hopes with less reserve. I 
desire ardently that the people of the United States 
should, by their more abundant gifts to the relief of suffer- 
ing, gain an increasing share in the experiences of re- 
surgent manhood plainly seen to be coming among the 
Allied nations. Part of the mighty issues of the sufferings 
and achievements of these Allied peoples will be a new 
perspective of values; a new solidarity of souls whose 
wealth of memories, insights, ideals, and hopes no mind 
can measure; a new world of men. Our people must not 
grovel while kindred nations soar; we must claim a place 
in their high fellowship by a greater ministry to their 
distress. 

George A. Gordon. 



"Oh, the man is always full of the most visionary 
schemes. He's quite capable of forming a company to 
get silver out of the linings of the darkest clouds." 



BAZAAR DAILY 



59 



A Sheaf of War Memories. 

{Conlinued.) 

Our next touch with the outside world was when a 
family of refugees from Louvain arrived in the town^ 
This was really an event, and we went in at once to see 
what could be done for them. We found the sorry group 
sitting in the dining-room of the principal hotel, nine in 
all, including two babies, — a buxom elderly woman, her 
two daughters, one son-in-law, a nephew, two grand- 
children, and a waif, little Victor. The two men and 
one of the daughters spoke French, and we sat there for 
more than an hour, hearing tales of such unspeakable 
horrors that, in spite of the truthful manner of the Bel- 
gians, we fully believed them only when we had heard 
and investigated too many to leave room for doubt. 

We all took great comfort in spoiling our refugees; 
any amount of dresses, hats, gloves, and so on were sent 
to the comfortable house lent to them, and we could not 
imagine why they always appeared in the shabby clothes 
they had worn when they first came among us. Finally 
we discovered that their chief pleasure was in remaking 
and carefully putting aside their new raiment against the 
day when they would return to their own country; we 
evidently were not worthy to see the glories. One day 
a lady who spoke Flemish came to Noirmoutier, and 
went to see the mother of the family, who could never 
speak a word of French. Naturally enchanted to be able 
to talk to some one besides her own family, she told the 
ghastly story, already familiar to us, speaking with great 
calmness and clearness; she kept entire self-control until 
at the end of her recital she suddenly broke down com- 
pletely, and burst into violent weeping. Her visitor 
made out through her sobs the wail: "I shall never see 
again my beautiful kitchen stove! I bought it only a 
month before the devils came, and now I shall never see 
it again — never again!" 

Little Victor, the only outsider, had his own special 
history. A boy of twelve, he was to sail from Antwerp 
with his mother and her eight children, having escaped 
from Louvain. They were all on board the boat lying 
at the pier, when the mother asked a sailor if she had time 
to send Victor ashore to buy bread for the voyage. Re- 
ceiving an affirmative reply, the boy landed, bought his 
loaves, and returned to see the boat far away in the river. 
He did not even know for what port she was bound, and 
was bandied about from one place to another, a poor little 
bundle of unclaimed humanity, until at Calais some one 
attached him to the band of his townsfolk bound for our 
island. There he became at once a hero, and was taken 
possession of by our Mayor, who is a vice-consul of Bel- 
gium. He and his wife live alone in a spacious house, as. 
big as their own hearts, and were delighted to install 
Victor there. But a difficulty arose; the sturdy, stolid 
urchin, whose chief aim during the day seemed to be to 
secure food, and then again food, became at night the 
prey of his past experiences. He would wake up two or 
three times shrieking with fear, the memory of his little 
comrades whom he had seen spitted by the Germans 
terrifying him beyond control. At these awful moments 
he required the accents of his own tongue to soothe him, 
and it was finally arranged that he was to sleep in his 
compatriots' house, returning in the morning to lead the 
life of a pet dog at the Mayor's. Everything therefore 
was well with him; but the thought of that mother, 
steaming away, not knowing what fate awaited her boy, 
haunted us, and we wrote about him to Mrs. Fisher 
Unwin in London, knowing well that no one ever turned 
to her in vain for help. One day about two months later 
I opened a letter addressed to me, and found within a 
post-card written in a strange language, beginning, 
"Bestes Victor." In two shakes of a lamb's tail, as we 



used to say in the nursery, I was on my way to the town, 
and in half an hour I entered the Mayor's house. Victor 
was in the dining-room eating a large slice of bread 
covered with red currant jelly; he had bitten two cres- 
cents out of it, and his mouth was enlarged by a curve at 
either end, which gave him a ruddy, artificial smile. He 
took the card, held it in his free hand, and read it to the 
end. Then two tears filled his eyes to the brim, trembled 
on the edge, and finally, with true Flemish deliberation, 
rolled down his fat cheeks, mingling with his jellied smile. 
His family had learnt of his whereabouts from Mrs. Un- 
win's advertisement, and their first idea was to have 
Victor rejoin them. But he was reluctant to leave the 
Mayor's wife, she was distressed to think of parting with 
him, and so Victor stays on. The last time I saw him 
I had occasion to rate him soundly for driving the grocer's 
old horse at an ungodly pace, thus risking his own neck, 
but more especially, as I told him, treating the poor 
creature in a Boche-like way. 

In those early days the war seemed to us islanders as 
far off and unreal as some fabulous beast — a thing to 
dream about and shudder at, but not an actuality. I 
recall to-day as if it were very long ago the first time we 
saw a wounded man. He was a rosy, chubby petty 
officer, who strutted about with his right hand bound up, 
followed by a bevy of admiring girls. I use to laugh 
when I saw them, and feel a sort of impatient amusement 
at the sight. "He looks as if he ought to be rolling hoop 
instead of masquerading as soldier," I thought. Then 
one day we met by chance, he was introduced, and 
walked home to Le Gaillardin with us, and there I heard 
from an eyewitness some of the stories I had read in the 
papers, and could not believe. He told us of his first ex- 
perience; it was in Belgium; he was riding along a country 
road with two of his men, and they stopped to watch a 
big farm-house burning. Thinking he heard cries of dis- 
tress, he dismounted and ran to the place. As he ap- 
proached, the shrill cries grew louder; he signed to his 
men to follow, and with great difficulty they succeeded 
in wrenching ofi' the planks that had been nailed across 
the door. They burst it open just in time to rescue a 
group of women, girls, and babies who had been sys- 
tematically shut in, every opening having been carefully 
fastened from the outside. He told us other things as 
brutal, if not more so, and then we asked him how he got 
his wound. He replied that the scratch was not worth 
such an honorable name, and then launched into a de- 
scription of the charge in which he had been hurt. He 
stood by the window, and, pointing with his left hand 
towards the peaceful fields resting from their summer's 
work under an autumn sky, he said: "It was like this. 
We were encamped along a line of several kilometers; 
we knew we were going to charge when the signal was 
given, and every man was wondering if he should feel as 
scared when it came as he did then. Suddenly, far off 
to the right — as if it were there, by the old mill, for in- 
stance — came a faint bugle call — too-t-t-too-too-too — 
then a moment or so after, another one a little louder — 
there, by the group of willows — too-t-t-too-too-too, only 
about a kilometer to our right. We could hear the men 
cheer, and were quivering with impatience. 'Keep 
back! Keep back!' shouted ourofficers, and for a moment 
we obeyed; but then came the third call, close by this 
time, down there by the well! Too-t-t-too-too-too! and 
if our officers gave any orders this time we did not hear 
them. We dashed forward, crazy men, yelling like mad. 
It was a magnificent charge! I wish my infernal hand 
would hurry up and get well." He had his wish, the 
plucky, rosy, little sub-lieutenant; he was soon back at 
the front, and his mother never saw her boy again. 

Helen Choate Prince. 

{To he continued) 



60 



BAZAAR DAILY 



BAZAAR DAILY 

Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 

Editor, ARLO BATES 

contributing editors 

William Dean Howells 

Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 

Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 

The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the Allied 
Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, S1.50, may be 
sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
taken at the booth. 

COPYRir^T, 1916, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 

Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 

At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band, Donald 
Sawyer and Polly Prior in Exhibition Dancing from 4 to 

6 P.M. 

In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
new and wonderful war pictures. 

Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of Wilfred 
Raid, Wilmington, Delaware. 



Paul Revere Hall, 2.30.— Mrs. Hill will tell about the 
Frontier Children and the work of the Association for 
the Protection of Frontier Children; stereopticon pictures. 

3. — The War in Cartoon, by Mr. A. G. Racey, of 
Montreal; Stereopticon Pictures; a unique entertain- 
ment, effective, powerful and graphic. 

8. — Mr. A. G. Racey will repeat his unique talk of the 
War in Cartoon, with Stereopticon Pictures. 

Main Hall, 9.45. — Madame Pauline Donalda, Canadian 
Prima Donna; Canadian Patriotic Songs. 



Golf-set number one has been awarded to Miss 
Julia C. Pendergast, of Bay State Road. 

A GENTLEMAN seeing the sign "Hot Dogs in the Base- 
ment" remarked that that accounted for the continual 
barking to be heard there. 

Young Mrs. X., wearing a brooch which had been 
one of her wedding gifts a few years ago, was stopped 
the other evening by a lady who greeted her joyously. 
"I am so glad to find you," the stranger said; "I want to 
take a chance on the diamond pin." "I am afraid I 
cannot help you," Mrs. X. returned, rather startled. 
"Oh, of course you can," was the reply. "Why, you 
have it on." It took serious argument to convince the 
stranger that she was in error, and even then she went 
away with the air of being only half satisfied. 

If elephants could hop like fleas, what a power they 
would be in close fighting. 

If any advertising dodge funnier or more effective than 
"Charlie Chaplin, just from the trenches," has ever been 
devised, it has not been our good fortune to see it. 

A Nation's Angel. 

It is not all a spending to no good, this debauchery of 
waste in war. The debit side is an appalling one: na- 
tions possibly bankrupt, beauty scarred and even wiped 
out utterly, lifelong suffering for millions and the life- 
long grief of loss for millions more, wholesale destruction 
of youth and the unguessed dowry it had brought us, and 



even the certainty — a negligible pain! — that some of us, 
though far from any immediate crippling, must eat and 
drink in sorrow all our lives because of it; yet even in 
the face of such destruction what flowers bloom over the 
field of blood! What richness broods in those deep- 
hearted blossoms of a willing sacrifice! If the young poet 
Rupert Brooke had lived through a high fulfilment to 
old age, he might never have touched such beauty as in 
the handful of verse he snatched for us on the edge of his 
waiting grave. They are showering us with beauty, 
these dying ones, tossing it back to us in the haste of their 
going. With both hands out and eyes raised to watch 
for it, we shall treasure it for all time, a gift from them 
who hardly stay to see what they have given. 

"Things are not always for the best, but the best can 
be made out of them." It was not for the immediate 
best that Germany went mad and planned this butchery; 
but since that was the inevitable festering of the poison 
she had fed on, it was for the infinitely beautiful best that 
she should be met, as she has been, by the horror and 
reprobation of the world and the Everlasting No of the 
countries she set out to plunder. The beauty of it — a 
thing for happy laughter in the face of carnage — that 
you can't get away from God! You can't blow up the 
earth so deep that it won't answer with a new fertility. 
Germany plotted the worst things she could imagine for 
the nation she hated and the nations she envied, and she 
has merely given them a more beautiful vision than the 
heart of man conceived: the sight of their own angels, 
not obscured by clouds of a dull dubiety, but walking with 
them, day by day. For there is the spirit of a nation of 
which the census takes no account, and quite apart from 
acreage and national resources. It is like the unconscious 
self of a man, betrayed by less than word or look, in spite 
of him. Could any of us who believe England is su- 
premely in the right to-day tell how the self that is her 
spirit, as the spirit of a man is his, shines before our eyes? 
That composite something which is England, France, 
Belgium, gigantic Russia, do we not see them throwing 
off the veils our tardy understanding clothed them with 
and rising in a many-colored beauty most moving and 
bewildering to us.' Yet not bewildering to them: for a 
nation's angel, like a man's angel, is calm and kind, and 
to walk with him the sanest possible thing. I can think 
of no more blessed vision for a nation doing its plain duty 
in a righteous cause than this sight of its own angel. 
England has it, France, Belgium, Russia. Thej- will not 
forget. 

Alice Brown. 



The Editor's Callers. 

The visitor was evidently Irish, a woman not greatly 
under middle age, dowdily dressed for fifteen years 
younger than she looked, and with an expression in her 
black eyes which showed at least firmness of disposition. 
The Editor regarded her speculatively. 

"What can I do for you.'"' he asked. 

"I come in, sor, to put an adveraV^ment in your paper." 

"We do not have advertisements." 

"Then good is me chance for that people will take 
notice of mine," she responded, settling back on her 
hips with a pugnacious air. "I'm told the gentry all 
reads yer paper, and it's them I'm thinkin' of obligin'. 
Then ye'd naturally be chargin' less if yer don't have 
any others; owin' to not bein' able to get 'em loikely; 
and me out of a place goin' on seven weeks." 

She seated herself without invitation, her mien evi- 
dently meaning business, and arguing ill for the Editor's 
forenoon. 

"I'll be as good a housekeeper as ever a dacint man 



BAZAAR DAILY 



61 



would lay hand on, sor; and you may know yersilf some 
gentleman as would want a lady to take care of him, for 
'11 go to no place agin where there's women in the 
family." 

The Editor reflected that a "d-acint man" would 
think twice before he laid hand on a person so belligerent, 
and wondered how he was to get rid of her. 

"I suppose you know how to cook," he observed 
absently. 

"Do I know how to cook, is it.^" she returned strenu- 
ously. "I can that for all cookin' that's plain, and a 
Christian crature ought to eat; but I ain't one to hold 
with single gentlemen havin' their friends eat at home 
with them, and expectin' a poor cook to stew up un- 
holy French things that would make a cat sick. And 
the washin' of course would go out, and a woman to 
come in once or twice a week for the extra cleanin' up; 
and me days out he'd naturally get his victuals at the 
club." 

"And what are your duties?" inquired the Editor, 
speculatively. 

"Me, now.? Wouldn't I be doin' the housekeepi" He 
most likely 'd have his breakfasts to home, and you never 
can tell how them single men will be wantin' ye to cook 
his dinner two or three times in a week extra." 

"And his luncheon.'" 

"No gentleman would be after aitin' his lunch to home," 
the caller responded in a tone of finality; and the Editor 
reflected how far short, if tried by this standard, he fell 
of her ideal of a gentleman. 

"Of course you are used to the care of a house," he ob- 
served absently, his mind divided between pity for her 
victims and schemes to get her out. 

"I don't hold with houses for single gents," she said. 
"A fiat with electric lights and an elevator and a gas- 
range is far more suited; and it ain't so cruel hard on 
the poor girls." 

"I suppose you would insist upon a piano.?" he in- 
quired in a passionless tone. 

"No, sir; I would not that. I don't hold with piana- 
playin' myself; but I'd take it kind if the gent what lived 
with me would lend the loan of his Victor of an evening 
when me friends was in." 

The Editor had begun to regard his visitor with a 
fixed stare, as if she were something unreal and impossible, 
yet which was obstinately persistent to the inner vision. 

"And your wages?" he asked feebly. 

"No dacint lady would take a job to work herself to 
death for a single gent, and have all the trouble of his 
comin' in late at night and like as not wakin' her up 
slammin' the door, for less than tin dollars the week." 

The Editor rose. 

"If I hear of any single gentleman who wants just 
such a housekeeper," he said, "I will speak to him of 
you. You have good references, I suppose?" 

"No, sor; nor I don't need 'em. My last gentleman 
died on me hands sudden loike, and me only in the house 
three weeks; and the one before that ran away. But 
Timmy Brady, the perliceman that keeps company 
wid me, '11 speak for me gladly, especiallv if it be on his 
beat." 

She rose in her turn, and the Editor opened the door. 

"Ye'll tell him me name is Bridget O'Shaunnasy, and 
I'm to be found at 13 Shamrock Street, South Boston." 

"Very well," he said, holding the door very wide 
open. 

"But my adver/xV^ment?" she demanded. 

"Oh, that is all right," he replied. "I'll write it at 
once." 

And he did, although he expected nobody to believe 
such a "lady" had ever visited him. Here it is. 



The Letter Bag. 

[Thr joUoiving extract is Jroin a letter written in acknowledgment oj a 
Lafayette outfit. This is the soldier's account of himself, and it loses 
so much in translation that we give the original.] 

Ce 5 OCTOBRE — 1916 — 14 heures. . . . Sachez d'abord que je n'ai pas 
de famille. Mes parents sont morts il y a quelques annees. Je suis 
orphelin, celibataire. J'ai 33 ans. J'avais un frere plus jeune que 
moi de si.x ans; il a ete malheureusement tue a la guerre. Je suis done 
seul. Je suis a la guerre depuis le debut. Je remplis les fonctions 
d'agent de liaison du Colonel de mon regiment. Ce qui consiste a trans- 
mettre ses ordres ecrits ou paries aux officiers qui sont sous ses ordres. 
Fonction tres delicate et tres dangereuse en temps de combats. . . . 
Avant la guerre j'e.\ercii;ais la profession de coiffeur, et cela en prati- 
quant beaucoup les sports. Principalment, les courses de taureau tres 
en honneur chez nous, le midi de la France. Puisque vous avez beaucoup 
voyage, vous avez sans doute entendu parler de cette attraction. 

Si vous ne connaissez pas je vous promets de vous envoyer apres la 
guerre des journeaux taurins, des photographies me representant dans 
mes e.\ercises en public "sauts au dessus des taureaux sauvages fonjant 
a toute vitesse sur moi." .-^u moment d'etre saisi par les cornes je 
fais un bond et la franchis passant ainsi par dessus ses cornes meurtrieres. 

Habitue au danger mcprisant la mort, je vous affirmequ'a la guerre jene 
crains pas I'ennemi, je remplis mon devoir avec conscience et continurais 
jusqu'a la fin. Ma conduite sous le feu ma valu 2 fois d'etre I'objet de 
citations avec la decoration de la croix-de-guerre. J'espere que sou 
peu nous aurons raison de cette race maudite qui avait la pretention de 
mettre le monde entier sous le joug de la barbaric Germanique. 

Nous nous battons avec confiance en la victoire et cela pour la paix 
mondiale, pour la liberte! Ayez confiance .Americains nos amis, vous 
qui nous aidez par votre generosite et qui etes toujours avec nous par 
la pensee. "Nous les aurons" comme nous disons en France. C'est 
notre cri de Ruerre. . . . 



The War Mother on Christinas Eve. 

Baby Jesus slept in a manger. — 

Yes! but it was warm. 
Heavenly rapture, cobweb-clouded, 

Sheltered it from storm. 
Mary Mother brooded o'er Him; — 

Who so glad as she.^ — 
Bowed her head, and prayed before Him, 

Proud as proud could be. 

Baby Jesus heard the angels 

Singing in a row; 
Hand in hand about the stable 

Courtesying full low. 
\Iary Mother joyed to hear them. 

Spoke them sweet and low; 
Clapped her hands and laughed to cheer them, 

With her lovely show. 

All, my son! no friendly hovel 

Spreads o'er you its roof. 
Ah, my son! no golden angels ' 

Sing for your behoof. 
And your mother, watching, weeping 

In a dreary daze, 
Wonders — is 't in death you're sleeping 

While she wakes and prays? 

Jesus! Master! go beside him 

Through the cruel strife! 
So shall good and grace attend him, 

Whether death or life. 
And, O Mother, patient standing 

By the bitter cross, 
Comfort me, first understanding 

Now thy loss! 

Laura E. Richards. 



The expressman who presented himself yesterday with 
what he said was a package for "the Buzzer" might have 
been supposed to have heard the daily and nightly 
buzzing of the crowd. 



One of the things which may well be remembered by 
workers is that every interested person becomes in turn a 
centre from which interest spreads. Every person who 
is induced to help, each one whose sympathy is aroused, 
is thenceforth, whether he appreciates the fact or not, 
helping to extend the spirit of the work. 



62 



BAZAAR DAILY 



A Modern Japanese Play. 

The Imperial Theatre at Tokio, under the patronage of 
the Royal Family, represents the highest development of 
contemporary Japanese dramatic art. Except for the 
bridge through the orchestra between the stage and the 
tire-room, it is built like any Western playhouse, is well 
appointed, comfortable, and not unpleasant to the eye. 
Its stock-company includes the actors and actresses of 
most repute in the kingdom; and months when in the 
plays the male roles are most important alternate with 
months when the female parts take the lead. 

I saw here last winter a performance consisting of five 
plays, and extending from four to ten p.m. An inter- 
mission for supper, most excellently served in the restau- 
rant upstairs, and another of twenty minutes for smok- 
ing, broke the time agreeably. Two of the plays were 
classics, wonderfully played, and in robes which, if sex 
obtains in heaven, might have shaken the whole heavenly 
hierarchy with feminine jealousy. The three others 
showed what the younger Japanese writers are doing. 
One was a farce, sufficiently crude as a whole, but with 
moments of drollery hardly to be surpassed; one was a 
play of flying-machines, of which the last act took place 
in the air; the third was a harrowing study of transmitted 
insanity. It was during the month when the actresses 
had their innings, and in new and old plays alike they were 
chiefly to the fore. A geisha who was the finest aviator 
of her school was the heroine of one play; while the last 
afforded the heroine a chance to out-Bernhardt Bern- 
hardt in her own line. 

The Japanese are essentially imitative, and the French 
models of the melodramatic plays wfere evident. Dis- 
tortion and exaggeration made them a little ridiculous; 
but the Japanese dramatists, far from meaning to satirize, 
were certainly deadly in earnest. 

The stage for "Heredity," the third play, was set as 
the courtyard of a large farm-house. At the back, about 
half the stage was occupied by a veranda a couple of feet 
high, and coming a third of the way to the footlights. 
To the right of it a wide gate-door gave on the open coun- 
try, and in place of wings that side showed the front of 
farm-buildings, with piles of rice-bags and agricultural 
tools. The farm belonged to an old widower, an invalid, 
who had three children: a son of twenty-five who has 
just been drawn for the army, a daughter a couple of 
years younger, and an idiot boy of twenty. The eldest 
son is about to join, and while the play has its only cheer- 
ful moment in a mock drill which a sergeant gets up with 
the farm-laborers and the idiot, he confides to his sister 
that he is leaving in great trouble. Mortgages on the 
farm, which to soothe the mind of his sick father he has 
represented as paid, have really fallen into the hands of 
an enemy, who threatens to foreclose. He fears the 
shock will kill his father. She is much overcome, but 
promises to seek help from the man to whom she is be- 
trothed. The act is interesting as giving a realistic pict- 
ure of farm-life, and the idiot's clowning in the drill was 
well done. 

The second act, at evening, brings in the villain. The 
sister receives him in the veranda, while the idiot sits on 
the ground in the courtyard, sharpening a reaping-hook. 
The villain comes directly to the point, and offers to sell 
the mortgages for the girl's honor. She receives his 
proposition with scorn, and he thereupon has out the old 
father. Despite her entreaties, he discloses to the farmer 
the truth about the mortgages. The old man begs that 
he may be allowed to die on the place his family has owned 
for generations, but the villain only repeats his vile pro- 
posal. This is rejected by the father with indignation 
m turn; and then the creditor plays his trump card. He 



informs the farmer that he knows his family secret that 
insanity is hereditary in the blood, and declares that if 
the girl rejects him he will use the fact to break off an 
advantageous marriage which has been arranged for the 
elder son. 

This is too much for the sick man, who thereupon 
collapses, and is got away by the daughter and an attend- 
ant. The idiot, who has been all this time at his task, 
begins to take notice, but does not seem much moved. 
When, however, his sister comes back to fling herself on 
her knees to the villain only to be thrown brutally to the 
ground, he drops the hook, and with one bound gains the 
veranda. He springs at the other man's throat, and they 
struggle, while the girl, with the idea of parting them, 
puts out the light, leaving the stage in that state of partial 
— perhaps one might more accurately say impartial — 
darkness so madly dear to the heart of Mr. Russell, 
late manager of the Boston Opera House. The idiot, 
after a mighty tussle, is flung senseless to the ground. 
Then the hereditary doom comes upon the unhappy sister, 
and she goes furiously, shriekingly mad. She grapples 
with the villain, they struggle, they wrestle, they fall, 
they roll about, crash from the veranda to the ground 
below, and for long harrowing moments thrash wildly 
over the ground. The whole action was performed with 
extreme realism, and was nerve-scraping to a degree. 
At last the hand of the girl comes in contact with the hook 
which her brother had been sharpening. She seizes it, 
and begins insanely to slash the man. The struggle is 
for some moments more mad than ever, as he makes a 
desperate fight for his life, but in the end he succumbs. 
Then she tears herself free from his dying clasp, with a 
wild yell flings down the bloody reaping-hook, and dashes 
into the house. 

The pretty little Japanese maidens in the seat before 
me had quite soaked their sleeves with their tears during 
this harrowing scene, and we heaved a sigh of relief to 
be at last done with its horrors. We felt that nothing 
else could happen; but we reckoned without our dramatist. 
The curtain for the third act went up on a garden wall, 
between which and the spectator stretched a canal. A 
gate in the wall opened slowly, and out crawled the 
wretched villain, "blood-boultered" to an extent which 
must have made the actor's expenditure for carmine 
grease-paint a considerable item in his bills. Painfully 
supporting himself by the gate-posts, he came in. In- 
stantly a scream was heard inside. The heroine had 
evidently gone to view the remains, and, not finding them, 
had followed the blood-trail. She rushed furiously 
after him, and a fresh wrestling-match ensued. It was 
brief, for it did not now take her long to overcome the 
wounded man, and -to fling him into the canal. She then 
did a Lucia di Lammermoor scene by herself, marred 
a bit by her feeling with her foot for the place on the 
artificial bank of the canal which was to support her 
when she followed him, and ended by precipitating her- 
self in after her victim. For the second time we gave a 
sigh of relief, and thought no more horrors could be 
forthcoming. For the second time we were disappointed. 
On her back, as if floating in the "raging canal," the mad 
girl rose again to sight, and from her mouth spouted a jet 
of water, much as a whale spouts when he comes up to 
breathe. Then again she sank, and this time, to our great 
relief, she remained below. 

The sobs of the audience testified to the great effective- 
ness of the play; but, contrasting it with the lovely old 
classic which had preceded it, I was old-fashioned enough 
to be inclined to feel that the land was selling its birth- 
right for an extremely poor mess of pottage. a. b. 



A sugaring off: a reconciliation of lovers. 



BAZAAR DAILY 



63 



England and America. 

Within a few days, one of our Boston morning news- 
papers contained two large head-lines which tended to 
increase irritation with England. One concerned the 
advice of the Federal Reserve Board against investment 
by banks in foreign securities; the other concerned the re- 
fusal of the British government to grant safe-conduct to 
the new Austrian ambassador to the United States. The 
former may be considered as a general intimation of what 
may conceivably come to pass; the latter is another of 
those vexatious incidents which have accumulatingly re- 
vived in this country the traditional resentments more or 
less dormant here ever since the Revolutionary War. 

In view of this, we may do well to remind ourselves of 
the two chief wars in our national history — that Revolu- 
tionary War in which our independence was asserted, and 
the Civil War of half a century ago which finally secured 
the Union. DiiTerent though we are apt to think them, 
there can be no doubt that both were civil wars, or that 
both were wars of secession. Had the Revolutionary 
War gone the other way, we might still have been in fact 
— as we remain both in language and in law — a part of the 
British Empire. Had the Civil War gone the other way, 
our country might now be under two distinct sovereignties, 
— the United States, which had remained under the origi- 
nal Constitution, and the Southern Confederacy. Even 
so, these distinct sovereignties would inevitably have 
had the same language, and historically the same law; 
in other words, no matter how high feeling might have 
run, they would have had in common, from the very facts 
of their national origin, the same ancestral ideals. 

Under such circumstances, if a completely foreign 
power had threatened either of these sovereignties, the 
other might well have found itself by this time instinc- 
tively, if not consciously, aware that the ideals on which 
it was itself based were threatened, too. It is not incon- 
ceivable that even though North and South had been in- 
dependent of each other for two generations, a common 
danger might have brought North and South together, in 
whole-hearted alliance, to defend the principles from 
which the existence of both alike had sprung. Anything 
else would have meant stupendous lack of historical 
imagination. 

Though unusual exercise of historical imagination may 
be needful to perceive the conclusion involved in this line 
of thought, there is no reason to suppose intelligent Ameri- 
cans incapable of drawing it. At the moment, the 
national existence of England, the mother of our language, 
our laws, our literature, and our ideals, is tremendously 
threatened. It is threatened by a system of which the 
language, the laws, the literature, and the ideals^ — what- 
ever their positive merit — are alien to those of England, 
and therefore historically to ours. We of America are in 
such historical relation to England as a Southern Con- 
federacy might have been in to a Northern United States 
threatened with completely alien conquest. Not a few 
among us have realized this ever since the outbreak, in 
1914, of the fiercest war in all European history. The 
more of us who can be brought to realize it, the less danger 
that our country may drift, as it drifted in 1812, into an 
undesired war which would threaten throughout the 
world, beyond anything yet recorded, the great principle 
of popular government. Let us be patient. 

Barrett Wendell. 



Fifty Doggerel Charades. 

XLII. 
Into my whole old William went, 

My first upon his finger; 
Memories and dreams of long ago 

Around his second linger. 

Times are not as they were of old," 
He mused, and sighed most sadly; 
And on my first lay down to grieve, 
The second went so badly. 

XLIII. 

My first's a house, but not a home; 

My ne.xt a stream men name in song; 
My third restrains when feet would roam. 

But gives men fame enduring long; 
My fourth a hollow, but a thing not meant. 
That with my third may mark a tent. 
My whole should every people be; 
And yet, alas! too much so we. 

XLIV. 
Without my first and my whole thread. 
No cobbler could second to earn his bread. 

XLV. 
Soft was the first the setting sun 

Threw over wold and lea, 
.As toward my second I must run, 

Lest four should wait for me. 

Well knew I what sweet third would spy 

To see me near the place; 
That face would glad my lover's eye. 

Fair with my whole's dear grace. 



The Letter Bag. 

[The writer quoted in the last number sent home this rhyme, which he found 
in a deserted Belgian cottage which had been occupied by British officers.] 
MR. ATKINS' PHILOSOPHY. 

When you're sleepin' on the fire-step in a blanket soakin' wet, 

When the mud is in your eyes, your mouth and in your 'air, you bet, 

When the rain comes through your dugout roof and drips down on your 

nose. 
When your feet are blinkin' icebergs, and you 'aven't got no toes. 
When the neighbours in your shirt are dancin' 'ornpipes on your chest, 
When you've dug for 14 days on end and 'aven't 'ad no rest. 
When the Corp'ril's pinched your rations and the Sarjeant's pinched 

your rum. 
Then never curse or swear, but simply smile — Remember Belgi-um. 

When the Alleman blows off your 'at or 'elmet with a crump," 

When the aerial torpedoes scarcely give you time to jump, 

When you're always in the 'ottest part and never 'ave no luck. 

When the whizz-bangs' come so quick you 'aven't got a chance to duck. 

When trench-mortar bombs an' shrapnel seem to 'ave a love for you, 

When in trying to retaliate your own guns shell you too. 

When you 'ear the bullets singin' and your 'ead they nearly 'it — 

Never mind, but just remember — you're a-doin' of your bit. 

When your billet's in a cow-shed and the bloomin' roof all leaks. 
When you're only paid ten francs for pretty well a dozen weeks. 
When if sick the Doctor gives you M. and D.J and sends you back. 
When you've lost your iron ration,'' your smoke 'elmet and your pack. 
When your rifle's choked with mud and you get F. P. no. 2,' 
When your pals all go to blightey," every bloomin' one but you. 
When you've got to 'op the parapet' and courage is at zero — 
Just remember '00 you are, my lad — a bloomin' British 'ero. 

'Crump = high explosive shell. 

' Whizz-bang = small explosive shell. 

jM. and D. = Medicine and Duty. 

< Iron ration = emergency food in tins. 

s F. P. no. 2 = Field Punishment no. 2, entailing dirty jobs. 

* Blightey = home. 

' 'op the parapet = come out of the trench. 



Little Bailey's nurse left, and for the first time he 
slept alone. On waking, in the early morning, he kept 
so still that his mother commended him. He replied 
indignantly, "Well; I guess I'm not here to wake the 
ladies." 



Dr. Weir Mitchell once told of a man who had a set 
of false teeth stuck in his gullet, and of the difficulty in 
getting them out. "Could he talk just as well after- 
ward.'"' asked his hearer. "Oh, after that," said the 
doctor, "he spoke in a falsetto voice." 



64 



BAZAAR DAILY 



Rhymes of the Diamond. 

I. 

Three baseball men a-sliding went, 

All on a summer day; 
They slid for bases, with intent 

To carry on the play. 
The first slid for the first, and out; 

The second second made; 
Tile third had got the third, no doubt, 

Had the ball been delayed. 

II. 
"Umpire," I said, "eggs are so dear. 

Why can't you help us out.' 
^ ou're surely able to, 'tis clear. 

With all your fouls about" 
""We might," he said, and gave a groan, 

"And much indeed we'd like; 
But every blessed foul we have 

Is always on a strike." 

III. 
"Why is the plate called home.'" I asked. 

"It has no homelike air." 
"'It is because," the Umpire said, 

■"The balls are punished there." 

IV. 

"What public service do you do.'" 

I to the Umpire said. 
"We swat the fly," he made reply, 

With knowing wag of head. 

V. 
""Umpire," said I, "'tis in the day 

All others sport about. 
Why will the nines refuse to play 

Until the bat comes out.'" 
The Umpire marked me with his eye. 

And then most rudely said: 
'"The bats about your belfry fly; 

Go home and soak your head!" 

VT. 
The champion game of all jhe season, 
Ended unfinished, for the reason 
Tom Grogan he stole all the bases. 
And naught was left to mark their places. 

VII. 
A grind asked to play on the team 
As short-stop, said; "Really, I deem 

Men in college should seek 

More exactly to speak. 
It's comma, I think, that you mean." 

VIII. 
"Umpire," I said, "when strikers fan. 

Of course it is that they are cool." 
As if he had not heard, the man 

Murmured but this: "I hate a fool." 

IX. 
"The centre-field," the Umpire said, 

"'S a perfect strawberry-plant, no doubt." 
I asked him why; he made reply: 

"He throws so many runners out." 

X. 

I said: "In winter, I suppose. 

Unless my judgment greatly errs. 
Pitchers, when outdoor seasons close. 

Are pitchers for the orchestras." 
"You err indeed," the Umpire said; 

"With music they have naught to do: 
They work to stop the seams, instead, 

Of ships that sail the ocean blue." 

XI. 

"Umpire," I begged, "in English plain. 

Pray tell why that last man they hiss." 
The Umpire gave his scorn free rein. 

And with simplicity said this: 
"Three men on sacks, and with a tie 

On the last half of ninth they hitch. 
For a ground-hugging drive they cry, 

And he foul-bunted a wild pitch!" 

Peter Ha.ncock. 



Answers to Correspondents. 

Bridget. Yes, it is excellent play to trump your 
partner's ace. The trick is probably a sure one, and 
so you save your trump. 

Tennison. When the game is at deuce, you may make 
a telling coup by faulting and then serving the second ball 
into the net. Your adversary cannot possibly return it. 

Pacifist. You ask what the Peace Society is to do if 
"war sounds her tocsin through the land." We speak 
with no authority, but we suppose the Peace Society 
would sound an Anti-toxin. 

Myrtilla. If you find yourself unable to decide be- 
tween two suitors, whom you say are equally handsome, 
agreeable, and rich, you might do worse than to consider 
what sort of a mother-in-law each would provide you with. 

Amelette. The secret of dividing the lines in the 
new poetry is known only to the elect. It has not, so 
far as we know, been patented; but, like the receipt for 
making the poisonous gas used in the trenches, it is care- 
fully guarded. One important thing, however, is evi- 
dently to begin a line with a preposition if possible, and 
the closing line is hardly ever other than a prepositional 
phrase. 

Corpulence. We have never heard that the home- 
opathists prescribe double quantity of food as a remedy 
for corpulence. 

Rosabel. Yes, it is, we believe, true that a foreign 
actress has achieved a mild sensation by wearing a nose- 
ring; but we do not on that account advise you to have 
your nostril pierced, — or at least not at present. It is 
possible that in a year or two the operation may be 
necessary if you wish to be in the fashion; it may even 
be that ladies will have holes made in their lips for lip- 
rings. At present, however, you are quite safe with a 
nose-jewel which fastens on with a clasp. 

An Autograph Trap. 

[Many are tlie wiles and many the ways of the autograph fiend, as all famous 
men know. Thomas Bailey Aldricli had innumerable requests from these 
people, but to them he naturally paid little attention. On the corner of the 
letter of which a copy is given below, Mr. Aldricii has noted: "I copied for 
him a sonnet." Persistence had done its work. — Ed.] 

Pegswood, Morpeth, Northumberland, England. 
20/1/94. 

To T. B. Aldrich, Esq. 

Dear Sir: 

A favor I would ask. 
And humbly hope that not a task 

It is to you to grant it: 
Will you your autograph bestow 
On me, though me you do not know.' 

The reason why I want it 
Is to adorn a book with it; 
One — need I say.' — that you have writ — 

How I should prize and vaunt it! 

This is the second note that I 
Have penned to you, as, with a sigh, 

Most likely you'll remember; 
The former, couched in simple prose, 
1 sent — me-ward you to dispose — 

In the month of November, 
Then waited with my cheeks aflame. 
For answer. But no answer came; 

Yet not expired Hope's ember. 

So, sir, respectfully again 
A begging note to you I pen, 
Believing in your goodness; 
And trust that you will pardon me 
What may but insolence seem to be, 

And eke my verse's crudeness: 
Not for the world I'd have it said 
That I had wittingly been led 
Into an act of rudeness. 
I am, 

Faithfully yours, 
Thomas Hutchinson. 



i.By7i3(;f> 
DEC 20 19(6 



BAZAAR DAILY 



10 Cents 



BOSTON,- TUESDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1916 



No. 9 




66 



BAZAAR DAILY 



Lament of the Cossack Ataman. 

(Stamboul; 16—.) 

It was springtime in the Saitch: 

The steppe was freshly dight, 

And all the Cossack Brotherhood 

Made merry day and night. 

Mead there was, and casks of vodka, 

And talk that war would come; 

The whiles you heard the horses neigh 

Above the stir and hum. 

But I shall never know again 

My comrades who of yore 

Rode with me on the Kutchman Trail, 

When we went out to war. 

For Didyuk, that was friend to me, 

With seven others too. 

Sat drinking deep and merrily; 

And half the night was through 

When Didyuk suddenly rose up, 

And kicked his stool aside, 

And beat upon the table 

Till all were stilled, and cried: 

"Who loves his freedom and his faith — 

To horse, and follow me! 

We nine shall ride to Baksh Serai 

To o'erturn Tartary!" 

The mead and vodka made our heads 

Go spinning round and round. 

We roared, and lurching got to horse, — 

Each took the first he found. 

Each for%vard in his saddle bent. 

And rushed along the Trail 

So swift the shrilling wind drowned out 

The startled sentry's hail. 

Morning was on us ere we paused 

To breathe and draw the rein; 

For no man wished to be the first 

To turn back home again. 

But as we nine stared through the steam 

Smoking from every steed: 

"Now tell me! Was it," Didyuk asked, 

"The vodka or the mead.'" 

His look was one of blank amaze. 

Such that, with one accord. 

For mirth each in his saddle rocked, 

And held his sides and roared. 

We faced our jaded steeds for home, 

Still shaking with our mirth; 

And followed slow the trampled track 

Of hoof-marks in the earth: 

But we had not gone above a league 

When from the sedge drew out 

A whole chambul of Tartars, 

That ringed us round about. 

A mace hung at my saddle-bow, 

God knows I plied it well; 

So that four Nogai dogs to-day 

Howl loud my name in hell. 

With a.xe and saire stanch we fought, 

Till only I was left, — 

Brave Didyuk was the last to fall. 

From brow to chin clean cleft. 

For one last blow I raised my arm. 

And struck with all my force: 

A noose drew tight about my wrist, 

And dragged me from my horse. 

So of the nine, alone I came 

To pagan Baksh Serai; 

God turned away His face from me 

And would not let me die. 

To Baksh Serai alone I came. 

And left my Cossack brothers dear; 

The dogs for tokens lopped their hands. 

And me they sold to durance here. 

The Soldan has a world of men, 

Countless as Azoff's sands; 

And they are quick, both horse and foot, 

To do all his commands: 

But I pray the dear I^ord Jesus, 



Who wore the thorny crown. 

That they march against our Saitch, 

And be utterly crushed down! 

And if ours took the Tartar Khan, ' 

And drew him on a stake. 

And I should live to hear of it. 

My heart for joy would break! 



Orsk 



A Sheaf of War Memories. 

(Continued.) 

All that first winter we worked steadily, winding, 
weighing, and giving out Boston wool to two hundred and 
fifty women who knit it into socks for the soldiers, and 
were paid with Boston money. In this way I saw scores 
of peasants, and owe them many a laugh. In these days 
a laugh is a precious thing, worth more than a passing 
word. There was fat, jolly, untidy Julie Julienne, who 
always had her joke ready. One of our great troubles 
was making change; I could get plenty of five-franc 
bills, but the francs, notwithstanding a bag containing 
two thousand shining silver disks, fresh from the mint, 
brought by my husband from Paris, and which melted 
as if by magic, were almost impossible to obtain. Owing 
three francs to Julie Julienne, I would hand her a five- 
franc bill and say: "Can you give me forty sous in 
change.'"' And she, with a wink and a chuckle of intense 
enjoyment, would double up, putting her hands on her 
fat knees, and exclaim, "Forty sous! If I had forty sous 
would I be here slaving? No! I'd be on the spree in 
Paris." Then there was the clean, sharp-nosed, hard- 
working Prudence Pinceclou, whose desire to get her 
fingers on her first payment was so keen that I asked my 
factotum, the mere Marechal, the reason of her eagerness, 
knowing that she was fairly well off. "Madame does 
not know.'' He he! It is to offer to Saint Antoine if he 
will keep her man at the war." "Keep him at the war.'' 
I don't understand." "Madame must know, as all the 
world does, that Prudence is not happy with her man; he 
gives her a blow from time to time, and drinks his wages. 
Well, if the good saint will help Prudence she will have 
her freedom and a pension." Alas for Prudence, thus far 
the good saint has been hard-hearted. 

It was in the spring of 1916 that I was called to the 
kitchen to speak to the Widow Gendron. I found her 
standing outside the open window, a tall woman, with a 
twinkling black eye in her sallow face. She was joking 
with the cook when I entered, but as soon as she saw me 
she assumed a lachrymose expression. "Madame knows 
all about I'lle de Paques," she began. L'lle de Paques: 
Easter Island. My geography at best is so sketchy, es- 
pecially where islands are concerned, that I steer as clear 
of them in conversation as if I were actually navigating 
in unknown waters. A vague memory that Loti had 
written something about this particular island came into 
my mind, but I felt quite sure that the Widow Gendron 
had no literary object in view. Seeing my perplexity, 
she explained that knowing all Noirmoutier had heard 
her story she had supposed that I was not ignorant of it, 
and having anxiously inquired if I could read French, she 
drew from some mysterious recess of her being a greasy 
newspaper, in which I read a very interesting article. It 
told that a Norwegian barque had lately brought into 
Nantes the captain and eleven sailors of a Breton boat; 
these men told a story of having been captured in the 
month of October, 1914, in the Pacific by the Prinz Eitel 
Friedrich. They were taken on board, but their cargo 
was confiscated, and their little brig sunk. After being 
kept as prisoners for several days, during which they 
were not unkindly treated, although the Germans told 
them that France was completely crushed, and Paris in 



BAZAAR DAILY 



67 



the Kaiser's hands (gloomy news for men who had not 
even heard that there was a war), they sighted an island. 
It turned out to be Easter Island, and as I promptly 
looked it up in the Encyclopedia, I am capable of saying 
that it belongs to Chili, is so far away that the arrival of 
letters there is problematical, that there are colossal 
statues at least one hundred feet high, to judge from the 
illustration, carved in the cliffs, and the inhabitants, who 
practise polyandry, have dwindled to insignificance. (I 
must draw attention to the adroitness with which I have 
avoided the Scylla of saying how many miles from the 
continent it lies, and the Charybdis of giving the number 
of its inhabitants. If my Encyclopedia were within 
reach I could pose as a statistician, but it is far away.) To 
return to our marooned crew, they were landed on the 
island, and watched the smoke from their captors' funnel 
lose itself in the horizon's haze, after which they made 
themselves agreeable to the islanders, who were most 
kind to them. After many months, one day a Nor- 
wegian barque saw their signals, took them off, and 
brought to France the captain and eleven of the crew; 
but, and this 'but' is the point of my tale, three men re- 
fused to leave their island loves, and one of these was 
called Adolphe Gendron. I repeated the name aloud, 
and looked up at the widow. Her wicked black eyes 
were sparkling with a mixture of pride, shame, and 
amusement. "Why," I said slowly, as the truth dawned 
on me, "but he is a deserter." "Exactly," said she. 
"What are you going to do about it.?" I asked severely, 
wishing to suppress that mischievous twinkle. "It's 
for Madame to do it." "For mel What can I do, my 
friend .' " " You can write a word to my poor Adolphe, 
and tell him" — here the twinkle became satanic — "tell 
him that he has fallen heir to a tidy sum of money. That'll 
bring him home, I warrant." "And who has left him this 
legacy.'"' I demanded. Scorn and pity for my density 
struggled for supremacy in her eyes, and were blended in 
her voice. She spoke gently, as one explaining some- 
thing to a child who may be naughty, and who is cer- 
tainly stupid. "There is no money of course, nor is it 
likely there ever will be any, but Madame must under- 
stand that the poor lad will never come back unless he is 
tempted, and he's my only one." She lifted up her pro- 
fessional wail, but it stopped abruptly when I asked 
what had become of Alexandre and Edouard, both most 
annoyingly alive the week previous. I did promise, how- 
ever, to write to the wandering sheep, the widow left us 
with a comfortable stock of eatables in her apron, and for 
all I know Adolphe is still studying archaeology in the 
Pacific Ocean, for he has sent no reply to my severe letter, 
which painted in glowing terms the shame he was pre- 
paring for himself against the day of Victory. 

To balance this story let me tell one of a difi'erent sort. 
One day I went to see a neighbor we call the Rabbit 
Woman. She deserves a chapter all to herself, but now 
I can only say that she has had a long, uphill battle to 
fight with poverty for many years, and has slowly won a 
foothold. Her energy, courage, and never-failing good 
humor make a chat with her a sure delight, and it is a 
picturesque sight that she offers going about among her 
rabbits, whose combed-out fur is sold to a factory where 
it is made into delicious tissues. She has been able to 
educate her son by her rabbit-money, and he is now an 
officer of distinction. His regiment is composed of 
"Les Joyeux," a name given to convicts allowed to work 
off their sentences at the front, and on this day she read 
me a letter from her son concerning one of them. He, 
with a comrade who escaped later, bringing back the 
story, were taken prisoners; they were led before a 
group of German officers who, having demanded the 
name of the one in question, told him that he was not 



unknown to them by reputation, having very kindly 
nursed several of their men when taken prisoners by the 
French. "I'd have you know," retorted Le Joyeux, 
"that I have killed more Boches than I have nursed!" 
His audacity amused the officers, who laughed, and after 
a moment's consultation said to him: "You are not a bad 
fellow, and if you will cry Five I' AlUmagne! we'll let you 
go." "Death before that! Vive la France!" his reply, 
and in ten minutes nothing was left of Le Joyeux but this 
little tale. When the Rabbit Woman had finished 
reading her son's letter she lifted her wrinkled face to the 
sky, and repeated as if she were praying, " Vive la France." 

Ah, those three words, Vive la France! To us, living 
in the stress of the war, they mean everything. You, dear 
home friends, surrounded by peace and prosperity, 
feeling the comfortable glow of generosity, so removed 
that the noise and confusion of the turmoil does not 
reach you, I pity you. We, who are suffering with France, 
who work early and late, who have added ten years to 
our lives since August, 1914, who are often sad and 
worn, and sometimes frightened, tve are living! We 
know how the men go forth from their firesides to meet 
probable death so that their boys, when they are men, 
may live in peace with their children; we know how sons 
say a long good-by to their mothers, so that other mothers 
in the days to come may have their dear ones near them 
when it is their turn to go through the final door that 
opens for us all soon or late. We know what it is to burst 
the chains that bind us to this poor, tormented earth, if 
only for a brief second, and feel that exaltation which 
comes from contact with the eternal truths, the greatness 
of sacrifice, and generosity and courage. One flash of 
that super-life is worth years of easy existence. It comes 
to us here. "Our own eaglets, aloft for the mastery of 
the skies," are eternally saving us as we gaze upward 
after them with yearning eyes. All that is best in us 
responds to their magnificent deeds. The pride that 
burns in our hearts is a godlike pride, and warms our per- 
sonal, intimate grief until it loses its cold ache. We are 
proud of our legionaries, we are proud of our ambulance 
boys, we are proud of our aviators. 

Vive la France! 



Oh, grieve not that our loving care can raise 

No monument for our heroic dead, 

Who left their bodies in the soil of France! 

Down echoing aisles no sad procession moved; 

No chant of choir, no word of Holy Writ, 

Commemorated the great hour their souls 

Cast off their earthly trammels, and set forth 

Unfettered on the eternal venture — Life. 

Name me the stronger, chapels built by man. 

Whose glittering windows filled with jewelled glass 

And soaring spires in tracery of stone 

Form glorious monuments whose end is Death: 

(For crushed they will be by the slayer. Time, 

Whose fatal hand falls on material things), 

Or deeds of those who fell for great Ideals? 

For such as they old Time is ever kind. 

And lends soft lustre in the gathering years. 

So let us cease our sighs and useless grief 

That graves like theirs lie all unmarked by man. 

God will take care of them; and poppies, grass, 

.^nd gay cornflowers in generous rivalry 

Will give their blending red and green and blue 

In place of fragile glass. Their roof will be 

The dome of heaven, and God's perpetual Mass 

Will keep their deeds in lasting memory; 

His incense, breath of violets; His altar lights, 

The unforgetting stars; His hymns of praise, 

The songs of little larks whose crystal notes 

AH like clear beads upon a rosary 

Drop down to find some rough-hewn cross that marks 

An unnamed grave, thus linking earth with heaven. 

Helen Choate Prince. 



A sage cheese makes a wise rabbit. 



b8 



BAZAAR DAILY 



BAZAAR DAILY 

Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 



Editor, ARLO BATES 
contributing editors 
William Dean Howells 
Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 



Alice Brown 

Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell 



Owen Wister 



The Daily is' issued daily for the ten week-days of the Allied 
Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
at the Bazaar/ Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
taken ^t the booth. 

y .' ■ ^ 

/ COPYRICBT, IO16, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 



Special Daily Features of the Bazaar, 

At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band and the 
Hawaiian Band each day from 4 to 6 p.m. _ 

In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
new and wonderful war pictures. 

Golf Lessons. To-day in charge of Mr. Thompson, 
Philadelphia. 

Paul Revere Hall, 230.— Mrs. Hill will tell about the 
Frontier Children and the work of the Association for 
the Protection of Frontier Children; stereopticon pic- 
tures. 

3. — Dances; Solo Dances, Exhibition Dances, etc., by 
Mrs. Wyman's pupils. 

430. — The Russian Balaliaka Orchestra; Soloist, Mr. 
Oulakanoff. 

8. — Japanese Fencing and Jiu Jitsu. 

Main Hall, 9. — Miss Ethel Barrymore will represent 
Belgium. 

9.30. — Madame Miura, Japanese Opera Singer. 

To-day is the day of Russia and Japan, once enemies 
so redoubtable, but now fighting the battle of freedom 
side by side. The Lithuanians are also especially in- 
terested in the success of this especial day, and will 
attend in force. 



The British Imperial Booth, No. 33, has received some 
embroideries which are hardly less than wonderful. They 
are charming in color and design and of a personal interest 
not surpassed by any other of the goods in the Bazaar. 
They were embroidered by the wounded soldiers in the 
Red Cross Hospital, at Netley, England, near South- 
ampton. Done by rough soldiers, some of them with 
but one hand, in colors selected by the men themselves, 
they show an aesthetic sense astonishing in men of this 
class. We regret that space is lacking for a more de- 
tailed description, but we commend them to attention. 

Orders for bound copies of the Daily are being 
received in gratifying numbers. Bound in cloth, with 
leather back and corners, the volumes will cost $3 each. 
They will be delivered as soon after the close of the 
Bazaar as they can be obtained from the binder. 

The Thistle and Shamrock entertainments are among 
the most completely delightful things at the Bazaar. 
Fresh, varied, and spontaneous, they would be notable 
anywhere. On Tuesday afternoon come {a) the Colleens; 
{h) Murray and Macintosh and Mr. Phillips; (f) M. 
Sergei Adamsky and the Russian dancers. 

To be dispassionate is to be inhuman. 



An Insurance Scheme. 

It is the earnest and sincere desire of the management 
of the Daily that during its brief career it shall really 
accomplish something for the lasting good of the com- 
munity. In a recent issue it made, in the plea for the 
establishment of a Society for the Suppression of Cruelty 
to Neighbors, a suggestion which, if carried into effect, 
must materially increase the happiness of many; it now 
wishes to follow the same line of practical improvement 
by urging warmly the advisability and wisdom of organ- 
izing a new and beneficent branch of insurance. Many 
persons, and especially single gentlefolk of both sexes of 
limited incomes, would find grateful and much-needed 
relief if at once were opened a company for Insurance 
against the Burden of Wedding Gifts. 

The principle of insurance is in Europe, with great 
intelligence and most happy results, extended in many 
ways unknown in our cruder civilization. It is well 
known that tradespeople, who would suffer a diminution 
of business in case a death in the royal family brought 
about a period of official mourning, habitually carry 
insurance policies on the lives of members of the reigning 
family; and this is but an example of the many practical 
methods by which through the insurance companies 
economic questions are settled and losses distributed. 
It is perhaps too much to say that in London a man may 
insure against falling in love, against losing his hair, or 
against changing his mind; but rates are quoted for 
almost anything short of this. He is able to provide in 
all sorts of contingencies a substantial pecuniary gain 
as an offset against the loss or chagrin which they entail; 
and he may also have, in any circumstances peculiarly 
trying, the inner consolation of the cleverness which led 
him to foresee and to provide for the calamity. The moral 
effect in many cases is really more important than the 
financial relief; but in the particular case with which we 
are concerned here the monetary side would be of first 
consideration. Everybody knows that weddings, like 
English sparrows, come in flocks. If one wedding invita- 
tion appears, any person of social experience says to 
himself: "In the word of Scripture — Gad." This, as 
every scholar knows, is not profanity, but simply the 
name of the son which Leah bore to Jacob vicariously 
through her maid Zilpah, and meant, as a taunt to less- 
prolific Rachael, "A troop cometh." A troop of heavy 
white envelopes is sure to come after the first. The person 
of small means sees with dismay the list of gifts required 
of him stretch longer and longer. However generous his 
impulses, there is a limit to h's bank-account; and mar- 
riages are made in heaven with no apparent reference to 
the financial resources of the friends of the parties con- 
cerned. Matings which to the recipient of invitations 
might be matters of rejoicing become for him occasions 
of doleful and perplexing endeavors to make his purse 
stretch to cover requirements. Two and two will not 
make five, and still less does he find it possible to persuade 
two and two to make seven or nine. The mating season 
ceases for him to be a period of tender sentiment, and 
becomes a period of terror and distress. 

If the company for Insurance against the Burden of 
Wedding Gifts were properly organized and in good run- 
ning order, a man whose policy was regular, and whose 
premiums were paid, would in times of stress, when 
invitations and announcements came upon him in a 
cloud, while his account at the bank was almost at the 
vanishing point, simply send to the company a list of the 
gifts called for, their estimated cost, and the extent to 
which he was able to contribute to the total sum needed 
to cover the expense. If the price of the presents was 
over the risk-limit of the policy and within the maximum 
of liability, the company would of course at once provide 



BAZAAR DAILY 



69 



the balance. All would be smooth sailing, and the policy- 
holder would be encouraged to take out a new policy to 
cover future emergencies. It would be excellent business 
on both sides. Nothing could be simpler, and how great 
would be the relief to the beneficiaries. Hundreds of 
persons who have been through a wedding-gift crisis will 
at once cr}' out for joy at the mere outlining of the scheme. 
It is wonderful that no enterprising insurance company 
has already tried this plan; and yet, if we may make the 
remark without seeming to overstep the bounds of 
editorial modesty, — if such exist, — many obvious things are 
strangely overlooked until they are pointed out by genius. 



The Editor's Callers. 

''So you think Americans are not well-bred as a rule," 
Candus remarked. 

"I am afraid few peoples as a rule are," the Editor re- 
sponded. "I do think the lack is rather marked in America." 

"But where is the standard then.'" 

"Perhaps it is ideal," returned the Editor, smiling. 
"The Chinese and the Turks perhaps come nearest to it. 
The Japanese used to make a fair show, but they are 
spoiled. In the Occident there is too much restles'sness, 
too much self-consciousness, and too much self-seeking." 

"But some of the best-bred people I have ever seen are 
Americans." 

"Amen. The world where there are none is not habit- 
able by civilized man. What I mean is that in any 
ordinary gathering, say at the theatre or a ball-game, or, 
for that matter, at a ball, one cannot help wondering at 
the ill-breeding which he sees on all sides." 

"It is about time," Candus observed thoughtfully, 
"for you to define what you mean by good-breeding. 
The mass of folk are likely to pay no attention to my rights 
or wishes of course, but I never thought much about that. 
I expect it." 

"By a well-bred person," was the Editor's answer, 
"I understand one who considers other people out of 
respect to himself." 

" Considers other people, is all right, of course," Candus 
responded; "but if he does it just to please himself — " 

"Don't think I'm being cynical," the Editor went on 
as the caller hesitated, "but is there any other ground so 
likely not to fail.? I said out of respect for himself, 
moreover. He may not please himself in the particular 
thing he does, but he feels he must do it because it is 
beneath his dignity to shirk it. Has any other social 
standard ever worked better that noblesse oblige so long 
as it was observed.' You may say it ignored the rights 
of the lower classes, but it is fair to remember that in the 
early eighteenth century few people even dreamed that 
any such thing existed." 

"Considering the causes of the French Revolution," 
began Candus, "I should think — " 

But the Editor put up his hand. 

"Don't get into the feminine trick of confusing the 
issue," he interrupted. "I just answered that. The 
rights of the people hadn't been discovered. In any 
case the real question is not so much how the code worked 
as whether it worked. If it had but included recognition 
of those then undiscovered rights of the lower classes, 
it would have been the most excellent social working- 
hypothesis the race has struck yet. Don't you see that 
a man is not really well-bred who is held by considerations 
outside of himself.' The moment he gets out of sight of 
his peers, his acquaintances, he has nothing but habit 
to keep him a gentleman, and that will not stand much 
strain. In a railroad station at Oxford once, I saw one 
of Boston's finest thrusting his way into a compartment of 
a crowded train, to get the last seat before the lady he 
pushed aside should take it. If he had dreamed that any 



one who knew him saw, nothing would have induced him 
to be so caddish. His monitor had to be outside himself, 
and nothing inside held him up to a standard." 

"I see; but how do you apply this to the thing we 
started with, the behavior of people in a crowd.'" 

"It applies itself. In a crowd an ill-bred man is gov- 
erned by what is expected of him by the average person. 
We are pretty lax about conduct which has to do with 
strangers, so that he is at liberty to be a good deal of a 
nuisance. I had on one occasion the arrangement of the 
music for an important and serious Boston function. 
I secured the services of one of the finest organists in 
America, and between two dignified addresses I had him 
play the Bach G minor fugue, — certainly one of the most 
superb pieces of organ-music ever written. I had chosen 
it as in key with the dignity of the occasion, and counted 
on it. The stage was filled with distinguished folk from 
various parts of the country. More than half of them 
talked steadily through the music, so loud as even to dis- 
concert the organist." 

"They probably didn't care for the music." 
"Of course they didn't. The point I make is that if 
they had out of self-respect considered that others did, 
or that those in charge could not but be troubled by 
indifference so marked in sight of the audience, the ques- 
tion whether they were personally interested would not 
have been allowed to come up in their minds. I confess 
that I felt them, despite their honors and attainments, to 
be behaving like boors." 

"You made a mistake in selecting music so far over the 
heads of the crowd." 

"What had that to do with the question.' Was it 
well-bred to advertise that to the audience before which 
they sat as distinguished guests?" 

"But that sort of thing is so common that nobody 
minds." 

"That sort of thing is so common,"" the Editor repeated, 
"that I ventured to lay down the proposition that Ameri- 
cans are not as a rule well-bred." 
"But that is a special instance." 

"You just said that it is common. Do you in travelling 
find that people do or do not consider your feelings.'" 

"But Americans are so kind," Candus protested, with- 
out answering directly. 

" On the whole, Americans — what are left of them among 
the mongrel hordes immigration has brought us — are the 
kindest folk in the world. That means that they respond 
to an appeal for pity, even in trifling matters. Their 
emotion is easily touched, and then they act from an 
inner impulse. When their real feelings come into play 
in the line of considering others, of taking the other fel- 
low's point of view and allowing for it, you have in the 
American gentleman or gentlewoman one of the finest of 
human products." 

"I really wish," Candus said, looking up with a whim- 
sical smile, "that you'd send me away feeling a little less 
dissatisfied. I hate to think of my countrymen as worse 
than the rest of the world." 

"I didn't say that they are. The whole matter is the 
inevitable consequence of the selfishness of human nature. 
It is rather worse in these days of self-absorption which it 
is the fashion to call individualism. My proposition 
was that good-breeding is the overcoming of this instinct." 
Candus rose. 

"My dear fellow," he said, "I wouldn't hurt your feel- 
ings for the world, but if you are starting out to give your 
views on individualism, I prefer to go." 

"That shows," laughed the Editor, "that you are 
willing to illustrate American indifference to the feelings of 
others, by refusing me the satisfaction of exhibiting a choice 
stunt on the back of an especially fine breed of hobby." 



70 



BAZAAR DAILY 



The Cup. 

I am the cup my Lord has made 

Out of the earth He made also, 

When the whirhng wheel His hand obeyed 

And the soft pervasive water's flow. 

He called on earth and rain and fire 

To set my shape as He designed, — 

But I am not the orbed desire 

That slept within His mind. 

Smeared is Thy cup, O Lord, and marred. 

I cannot mend it if I may. 

No cunning now can fit the shard 

Once broken to its curving clay. 

The lees within, though love should pledge. 

Drip turbid from its roughened edge. 

Canst Thou not use me still, O Lord, 

If I am not for Thy pure thirst. 

Nor for the sacring of Thy word. 

Nor antidote to woes accurst? 

Or if I do not longer fit 

The harmony of Thy first will. 

Fling my poor fragments to the pit 

Where dregs disused Thy law fulfil. 

Yet in that last mischance and shame, 

Leave me the imprint of Thy name. 

Alice Brown. 



Phillida and Corydon. 

The scene is a green meadozv, not ten miles from Netv- 
port, with trees, a little brook of clear water, and in the fore- 
ground some sheep brozvsitig. Under a tree sits Corydon, 
a painter, who for some reason has left easel and brushes 
elsewhere, and is watching the sheep. To him. enters 
Phillida, a maiden in fashionable attire, carrying a parasol 
with a long curved handle. She has left her carriage on the 
road, and com,es suddenly upon Corydon, whom the trees 
have screened. She starts, with a little exclamation. 

Phillida. Ah! A stranger. I — I thought there was 
no one here. 

Cory'don {rising, and bowing low). If you prefer, 
Aladame, there shall be no one here, and that on the 
instant. I am, however, a harmless creature, a mere 
keeper of silly sheep. My name is Corydon, at your 
service. 

Phil. Corydon? A shepherd.' Why, then {smiling 
a little) my name is Phillida. 

CoR. I guessed as much. In truth, your crook {point- 
ing to parasol) betrays you. Sit down, O Phillida, on 
this grassy bank; and since your own sheep have strayed 
elsewhere, we will together watch mine. This is friendly 
of you, Phillida. 

A Sheep. Baa-a-a! 

Phil. Ah, the horrid creature! Do your sheep bite, 
Corydon ? Drive it away, please. 

Cor. Shoo! Go away, sheep! (What in thunder do 
people say to sheep.' You say "boss" to a cow, and 
"old fellow" to a dog; but you can't say "old fellow" 
to a sheep.) Fear not, O Phillida! The kindly beast 
but greets you in its simple fashion. Are your sheep wild 
or mischievous, that you stand in fear of these? 

Phil. Oh, no. Not — not particularly wild; but — 
but they might nibble one, you know. Have you been 
long a shepherd, Corydon? 

Cor. Nay, truly; but it matters not. You come 
from Golconda, the golden city, which lies beyond the 
white dust of the road. Perchance you have been so- 
journing there, or it may be that you went only to sell 
your eggs or the wool that you have spun during the 
week. You must be weary with your walk, Phillida. 
I would that I had curds or clotted cream to offer you, 
or berries with the dew still on them. Here are certain 
comfits, however, made from the fruit of a southern 
shrub, which may give you some small refreshment. 
(Poor Dolly! She must go without her bonbons to-night; 
but such is the fate of sisters.) 



Phil. I thank you, Corydon. The comfits are 
delicate, and with a draught of fair water from yonder 
brook I could make a pleasant meal. {He goes for water.) 
(Huyler's chocolates, and fresh to-day. He has been 
in Newport, then. Who can he be? Ah, his handker- 
chief. Finest linen. Now for the name. Ah! Only a 
letter, C. — Provoking!) {She drops handkerchief as he 
turns back from the brook.) 

CoR. See, Phillida, what a fair goblet I have fashioned 
from this sycamore-leaf. Drink, fair shepherdess; and 
may the magic draught deepen in your heart the love 
of Arcadia and all its pleasant things. So! For you the 
water, for me the goblet. {Puts leaf in his pocketbook.) 
Now tell me, when have you drunk so sweet a draught? 

Phil. Truly, I know not, Corydon. It was sweet 
indeed. It was a pity to spoil the pretty leaf-cup, though. 
You can never use it again. 

Cor. As a cup, no. Yet it has a value for me, since — 
Phil, {hurriedly). You carried it so steadily, too, 
without spilling a drop. Some men are so awkward. 
Last night one spilled a whole glass of champagne over 
the front of my gown. Odious wretch! And then he 
said it was good luck, and hoped I didn't mind. 

CoR. Had I been there, I should have struck him to 
the earth with my good crook. The brute! No shepherd 
he, I dare swear. 

Phil. Not exactly. I do not see your crook, Corydon. 
How do you manage your sheep without it? 

CoR. They know my voice, Phillida. They love me, 
the silly beasts, and would not leave me if I would leave 
them. How, then, must your white-fieeced flock worship 
the subtle silver of your tones, and joy to cluster round 
you, or to lie in sweet contentment at your silver feet — 
thus! It was at the Crcesus ball, was it, that this blatant 
ass spoiled your gown? 

Phil. How? You know the Croesuses, then? You 
were not there, surely? 

CoR. Question most strange! What should a simple 
shepherd do with Crcesus, or Croesus with him? I know 
them, Phillida, as the humble weed knows the gorgeous 
sunflower that shoots its gold rays far above the garden- 
bed. As to the ball, who did not know of it? Did not 
some of my poor sheep yield up all their sweetbreads to 
furnish forth the dainty banquet? (Do sweetbreads 
come from sheep, I wonder, or is it from pigs, or. calves, 
or what? Well, perhaps she won't know.) And were 
you happy at the ball, Phillida? 

Phil. Yes, before young Crcesus ruined my best 
gown. 

Cor. (It was he, then. I might have known it. 
The clumsy, blundering cad!) But before that you 
were happy. You, a shepherdess of Arcadia, under the 
flaring gaslight, — the thing likes me not. Did sweet 
airs blow over you, as here in the lonely fields? Did 
the sky bend above you, and did any man sit at your 
feet and tell you he loved you, as a man might well tell 
you, did he sit there long? 

Phil. Oh, hush! Well, yes! On the stairs, you 
know. But I did not heed him. Why do I speak of 
such things to you? 

CoR. Why? Because you are in Arcadia! Because 
you are Phillida, and I am Corydon. Because — On the 
stairs, you say? O Mother Ceres, forgive the outrage! 
I see the whole scene. The wide, glittering hall, a sea 
of lace and silken fripperies, bare shoulders and glittering 
locks, with black-coated crows stalking or hopping about 
solemnly. For silver babble of this crystal brook, the 
murmur of a thousand voices that say nothing. For this 
green bank, a seat of scarlet velvet halfway up the broad 
stairway, on which sits Phillida, the Arcadian, with pearls 
in her hair, and at her side what passes for a man! He 



BAZAAR DAILY 



71 



But I say, where's 
dollar, and go and 



has sandy hair and white eyebrows; one eye is neatly 
framed and glazed; his chin retreats, in noble emulation 
of his polished forehead. His speech — 

Phil. Oh, for shame! For shame! This is inexcus- 
able, Corydon. 

Cor. Nay, there is an excuse, believe me! It runs 
pleasantly, in the words of an old song my nurse used to 
sing: 

"She was fair and he was young." 

I'm not particularly young, though not so old but that 
others are older. But you are fair, Phillida. You are 
very fair, Phillida! Your eyes! what are stars — 

Enter from different directions a shock-headed boy and a 
footman in livery. 

Boy. Here's yer matches, mister, 
the sheep.'' 

Cor. Hang the sheep! Take this 
find the sheep with it. 

Boy. And I say, mister, the red cow has been lickin' 
your picture on the stand, and she's licked it all off. 

Cor. Hang the cow also! Here's another dollar. 
Go and see to the cow; who knows how paint will agree 
with her.'' 

Footman. If you please, miss, the blacksmith says 
the kerridge is safe now; and Murdock says the horses 
is uneasy, miss. 

Cor. A shepherd's malediction on the smith! 

Phil. Very well, James. Tell Murdock I am coming 
at once. {Exeunt Boy and Footman.) So it is over, 
Corydon. You have been most kind and entertaining; 
and thank you for the chocolates; and — Arcadia is a 
pleasant place. I am sorry — to leave it forever. 

Cor. Ah, but you cannot leave it, fair lady! See 
you not, do not my eyes tell you — Why do you turn 
away from them? — that you will always be Phillida, and 
that where Phillida is there is Arcadia and Corydon.'' 
What though you masquerade in Golconda as Agatha 
Dorimond, and I am known as Randolph Croydon — 
you see I changed but one letter! — still you are fair, and 
from Arcadia I go not while you remain. 

Phil, {hesitating, then with a sweet shyness). If such 
be the case, what is there to prevent Corydon from 
accepting a seat in Phillida's carriage as far as Hart- 
mann's.? 

He bends to kiss her hand; then as he draws her arm 
within his ozvn, the curtain falls. 

Laura E. Richards. 



Fifty Doggerel Charades. 

XLVI. 
Needy lovers, he reckoned, 

Might be in a flurry; 
He had gold in my second, 

And so need not hurry. 
So he first took my first, 

And then went to his wooing; 
But his fate was accurst, 

And delay his undoing. 
So a soldier he went, 

Where the guns and drums rattle; 
'Neath my whole sadly bent, 

Till he fell in the battle. 

XLVII. 
O'er icy snow-fields gliding. 

While stars gleamed overhead, 
With first my fleet whole guiding, 

Swift he to my second sped. 

XLVIII. 
Reverse my first and find a cunning snare; 

My next reversed did Homer; by my whole, 
So Ovid tells, once held a woman fair 

Him whom she loved, where fearful billows roll. 
My first a count, my next a grandee too. 
My whole belongs to me, and yet belongs to you. 



XLIX. 
I stood with Kittie by my third, 

Her second met my eye; 
My first was on her slender hand, 

I could but sigh and sigh. 
"Your coldness, love," I desperate begged, 

"Oh, whole, or I shall die!" 
Her glances fell before my prayer; 

A kiss was her reply. 

L. 
My first went down the garden path; 

So white was she and fair 
That every herb and flower breathed out 

Fresh perfume on the air. 
Within its bed she saw my whole 

Bloom in the morning sun; 
Its every leaf and petal bright 

Fair shining one by one. 
She looked and longed; she could not go 

Without one fragrant spray; 
She gave one second, and the prize 

In gladness bore away. 



The Letter Bag. 

[So many prrsons were inlerrsled in llie tragic late o] Charles Homans 
Priestley that vie print the following letter from his Lieutenant-Colonel 
and- a portion of a letter which he himself wrote last summer to a Boston 
cousin.] 

B.E.F. France, gth September, 1916. 

Dear Mr. Priestley: I want to write and tell you how much we all 
sympathize with you in the great loss you have sustained. Your son 
was acting as Machine Gun Officer and Bombing Officer to the Battalion, 
and had been absolutely invaluable in carrying orders from Head- 
quarters to the Companies in positions which had been captured a few 
hours; there was constant shelling and rifle-fire all the time, but he 
repeatedly got through with messages, and was killed instantaneously 
by a bullet as he got back to Headquarters after delivering a very 
important message on the afternoon of the 4th. 

He had constantly volunteered for dangerous work, such as observ- 
ing under heavy shell-fire during the past few da\'s, and it seems very 
hard that he should have fallen just as complete success seemed, to have 
been obtained. He showed himself absolutely regardless of danger 
and was one of the most promising officers I have known. 

We buried him close to where he fell, at a spot now well within our 
lines. I hope it will be some consolation to you to know how gallantly 
he died. He had made himself immensely popular in the short time he 
had been in the Battalion. 

Yours sincerely, H. L. Riley, 

Lt.-Col. Comdg. I2th Bn. Rifle Brigade. 
— July 7, 1916. 

My dear Cousin. ... Of course we never remove our clothes in the 
trenches. We get a kind of shave and wash in cold water, if we are 
lucky, but nothing else. We all wear steel helmets covered with khaki. 
They are rather heavy, and don't fit very well, but are undoubtedly 
very useful. We also all carry gas helmets on us. ... A word as to 
shells. They are awful. The kicks vary. The best known to me as 
yet is the Whizz-bang. Like its name, it is quick and sharp. All 
you hear is Whizz followed by a bang. Then there are the Air-Crumps 
which are slower in movement, and more effective. Shrapnel bursts in 
the air, and then you hear patter, patter as the shrapnel falls all around. 
The heavier stuff you hear whistling over makes a noise like a train and 
a rocket together. 

The night after I arrived we had a "straffe" on. Shortly after 
dark our machine-guns started, and then our artillery started, and 
then theirs. The noise was appalling. The men all sat in their fire- 
bays, and trusted to luck. You feel perfectly helpless. The nearest 
to me were two [shells] which scattered debris over me, and in my bay a 
nose-cap fell against the parados, and into the trench. I have it as 
a souvenir. We got it hot for an hour and three quarters. Then we 
had a rest, and they stopped too. The rest of the night was quiet, while 
we saw to casualties, and repairing of trenches. A shell landed in one 
bay, and did in six fellows, two killed and the others wounded. They 
looked none too pleasant a sight. Most of them were buried under the 
debris, and had to be dug out. 

The chief thing here is the longing for a small wound to take you 
back to England. The part of the line here is very famous, and the 
town near the line, which is an absolute byword, is like nothing on earth. 
Hardly one house is left standing, and it is truly the abomination of 
desolation. Here a house with one wall left proudly defying the enemy, 
here all the walls have collapsed in a heap, here one sees a house with 
all four walls standing, though riddled, with the whole interior a heap 
of stones, and now, marvellous to relate, a house whole, but with shat- 
tered windows. It is a sight never to be forgotten. This is a great 
experience, and I would not have missed it for worlds; but for all that 
it is not war, but as someone said once: "A spasm of human extermina- 
tion." . . . 



72 



BAZAAR DAILY 



The Child. 

dear dead poets of the old lost lovely days! 
How lavishly you plucked the undying word 
None but your ear had heard, 

For the rhymed need of praise 

Of even the small violet 

By April's dewdrop wet. 

Look now on me. More dear to God am I 

Than all the lilies of the field 

Who ravishment of perfume yield. 

1 am the child whom He has made 
In His own image. Yet my dirt 
And rags and hunger, the red hurt 

His enemies have dealt me, well might make afraid 

The little stranger soul in me, astray 

In the world-tumult of a desperate day. 

So dear is it, the dew-drenched violet's hue.' 

To Him my tear-wet eyes are dearer still 

Because my human will 

Burns through their anguish, and demands to know 

Why man has made me so. 

Alice Brown. 



Lowell's Table-talk. 

[The following interesting notes on the talk of James Russell Lowell are from 
the note-book of the late Thomas Russell Sullivan.] 

Saturday, March 17, 1887. 

Dined with Mrs. T. J. R. Lowell among tiie guests. 
Lowell did most of the talking, delightfully, giving many 
anecdotes of statesmen, poets, celebrities generally, and 
life at foreign courts. When the Queen bade him good- 
night after his last dinner at Windsor, she said: "In 
common with all my countrymen, I deeply regret your 
departure." Mrs. T. asked him what he did when a queen 
said a thing like that. "Well, I wrote her a sonnet." 

\\ ith FitzGerald he had a long and pleasant intercourse. 
Once in writing him he forgot to read over F.'s last letter 
a second time, and addressed him as usual, "Dear Mr. 
FitzGerald." Afterward when FitzGerald was dead, he 
refencd to this letter and found that F. had said, "Let 
us drop this stiffness, and call each other Lowell and 
FitzGerald." The correspondence had continued cor- 
dially, but of course the prefix had never been dropped. 
And F. went to his grave supposing that a closer intimacy 
would be unacceptable to Lowell; he said; "I shall never 
get over my remorse for this." 

He saw much of General Grant in Spain, and con- 
ducted Grant and his wife one day through the Escurial. 
They came to a room where many bronze garlands, gifts 
to the king, were heaped upon a table. Mrs. Grant said: 
"Lyss, if you had all you deserved, I guess there would 
be more than that." 

He found always something fine in her self-possession. 
She was "as good as anybody." Giving Grant a dinner 
there came up the question of precedence. No ambas- 
sadors would come if Grant were chief guest. So Grant 
gave the dinner, and presided. His wife sat near two 
Spaniards of high rank, who talked to her all the time 
in French, of which she understood no word. But with- 
out embarrassment she answered them in English as 
best she might, and this curious conversation was kept 
up for hours. In the Spanish Cortes, and before the 
Academy, an address always ends with "He dicko," "I 
have said." "I always enjoyed making an address in 
Spanish," said Lowell, "particularly the 'He dicho.'" 

N.B. His estimate of Shelley agrees with Lamb's; he 
finds his longer poems wanting in substance, many of 
them he has not cared to re-read. Wishes Shelley had 
translated more from the Greek: his versions would 
surely have been superb. Liked to read the "Cenci," but 
found the representation of it too horrid to endure. "It 
was like a bull fight: I went out. Yet in reading it, I 
did not have this feeling. This seems to prove that the 
characters want vitality." 

Walking on the terrace with the Spanish king at the 



royal country-seat, the monarch gave him a cigar. He 
took it, thinking this must be the finest thing out of 
Havana. It did not seem remarkable, and the next day 
he saw the same br-and in a shop-window of the village. 
Much inconvenience arises from our inappropriate court- 
dress, rigorously prescribed, and like that of an upper 
servant. "The first time I went to the palace I followed 
up the stairs the ambassador from Paraguay, who wore 
a handsome uniform with orders. The usher greeted 
him with three blows of his staff upon the floor, but when 
I passed, turned away and put the staflf in a corner. I 
attacked him savagely for this want of respect. He 
apologized, and gave me a tremendous salute; but when 
I came to the door of the presence-chamber, I had to go 
through this over again with the guards. You may say, 
if you will, that our plain dress has a sort of distinction, 
like Castlereagh's at Venice. 'Who is that distingue man 
without orders?' The officials learn to know you, of 
course; but until they do, you must expect to be slighted." 
The cable has done away with diplomacy. "You are 
always within an hour of your chief; of course you must 
appeal to him in everything." In the Madrid Gallery, 
Grant asked to have the famous pictures pointed out. 
"But I found that he discovered them himself, and knew 
perfectly well why he liked them. He expressed a marked 
preference for the Dutch pictures." 



The Dawn. 

When the dawn like a dynamite bomb 
In the red-hot east has burst; 

And with forty-two horse-power tug 
Tommy Atkins feels his thirst; 
When Alandelay is a-roast, and Kalamazoo is a-freeze, 

And the sergeants make their cursing boast 

They can sleep in spite of fieas: 

Then 'tis drill, and Billy be damned! 

Do yc wake, Tommy .\tkins, wake.' 
Do cramped legs ache when the red dawns break.' 

March on till your grave be crammed! 

When the bloomin' old sun parts the haze 
.As the Black Tyrone breaks through; 

When the bloomin' red dawn-fires blaze 
On the mountains of Bungaloo; 
When Mandelay is anear, and Kalamazoo is afar, 

And the language spoke by the soldier men 

Is theology mingled with tar: 

Then 'tis drill, and Billy be damned! 

Do ye wake, Tommy Atkins, wake? 
Do stout hearts ache when the red dawns break? 

March on till your grave be crammed! 



Bailey was in his mother's room while she was dressing, 
and when she had finished he said he was going out. 
His mother said it was breakfast time, and that he 
should have gone out sooner. 

"Oh, no, mother, I couldn't ; I had to stay with you. 
That is what God made me for, to take care of ladies. I 
wonder what he made the ladies for!" 



A boy of seven was given a sight of his new baby sister, 
aged hardly as many hours. He looked at the small, 
wrinkled, red morsel of humanity a moment, and then 
exclaimed: "Gee! Wouldn't she make a dandy jack- 
o'-lantern!" 



"Doctor, what would happen to me if I fell into the 
water and were drowned?" 

"It would not seem, madame, as if much more need 
to happen, of any sort; but in the interests of sanitation 
I trust that your family would give you a funeral." 

"But suppose I wasn't really drowned, only I seemed 
so?" 

"In that case, madame, I suppose your family would 
have to be content with a mock funeral." 



QEC 21 1916 



'ci.Binnno 



BAZAAR DAILY 



10 Cents 



BOSTON, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1916 



No. 10 







Products of Kultur. 




1 . ..i-ij..-: :.jSi-si$Mp:is^'-^ 



74 



BAZAAR DAILY 



A Military Funeral. 

The muffled drums beat — beat — beat — beat; 
While tramp — tramp — tramp go marching feet. 

For hearse no catafalque with fret 
Of gold and jet; 
Only the dusty, red-blotched wheels 
Have followed him o'er trampled fields. 
Such is the pomp that now suits best, 
When muffled drums throb rest — rest — rest, 

Rest for the patriot; rest for the brave. 

Down the long street as the gray day is closing, 
Under the flag that he died for reposing. 
Goes all that is left of a hero — save glory: 
That to the unborn shall yet tell its story; 
So goes the hero along to his grave. 

And dusk comes down 
In the streets of the town; 
But the light of the deeds of the hero, unfailing, 
Burns on, over darkness of evil prevailing; 
Death for one's country of all deaths is best. 
The muffled drums throb rest — rest — rest. 

George Moorhead Gray. 



On a Hillside in Paradise. 

They lay side by side, stretched at full length on the 
soft warm grass of a hillside of Paradise, and looked out 
over the wide prospect. The light was the glow of an 
afternoon in early autumn, with a sense of ripeness and 
fulness, but with no suggestion of decay. Their view 
took in a wide stretch of country, varied, well watered, 
rich in growth, with thrifty farm-garths set among 
clustering trees and fields green with herbage or golden 
with harvest. From the nearer orchards below their 
little hill they could catch glints of vivid color where 
clustering apples crimsoned the branches. Pleasant 
streams meandered here and there, and from them came 
shining flashes where in some turning or ruffled spot the 
current threw reflections of sunlight back to them on 
the grass above. In the background of the landscape 
were low, rolling hills; and above them the sky was of 
turquoise blue, with here and there snowy flocculent 
clouds passing with motion hardly perceptible. 

The pair were still young; both with an air of refine- 
ment; and both no less with a bearing which in all their 
relaxation showed effectiveness and alertness. He had 
been a captain in an English regiment in Flanders, and 
she, his betrothed, a nurse in the hospital at a post fifty 
miles away. They had known each other all their earth- 
life. He was the second son of the Squire in the village 
where her father held the living, and their attachment 
dated from their childhood. They had been killed on 
the same day; he leading an attack on the German 
trenches, she in an explosion caused by bombs dropped 
on the hospital where she was stationed. After that 
they found themselves together in Paradise. 

-"Isn't it wonderful.'" Harold said with a deep inhala- 
tion, as if he could never drink in enough of the life-full 
air. "Isn't it like dear old England.-"' 

"It certainly is. I know a place down in Suffolk that 
is exactly like it, only not so perfect," Marion answered. 

Then she laughed softly. 

"I wonder — " she began. 

"Well, what do you wonder now, my dear.'" he asked. 
"I've wondered at so many things since we came here 
that I've hardly room for a new one; but let's have it." 

"I was thinking that yesterday Sister Marie, who had 
the ward next to mine, said that here it looked exactly 
like Normandy, and that Sister Clarisse, who was with 
her, declared that it was the picture of Auvergne. I was 
wondering if to each of us it looked like home." 

Harold picked a bit of thyme, and smelled it thought- 
fully. 



"Perhaps," he said. "It is certainly homelike." 

"It makes each of them think of home-places, I sup- 
pose," Marion rejoined thoughtfully, "because it has the 
home-feeling. Though, of course, in reality it is exactly 
like England." 

"Of course it is." 

Harold leaned over to stroke her fingers with the sprig 
of wild thyme; she took it quietly, smelled it, and set 
it in her dress. Then again she laughed very softly. 
They both had fallen into a habit of quiet, hardly audible 
laughter for sheer joy of the place. 

"You would think me very silly if I told you what the 
view suggests to me," Marion said. 

"Then by all means tell me, my dear. Aiy idea of you 
needs to be chastened a little. It is too h gh to be real 
of any creature human-born." 

She pinched his ear, and looked at him lovingly. 

"It fills me with delight because it makes me so certain 
that there are no snakes in the whole country." 

"I knew you were not extravagantly fond of snakes, as 
witness the thrashing I once gave my own older brother 
for holding a harmless little garter-snake in your face; 
but I had no idea that the mere notion of being free from 
them could make a place a paradise." 

''From my childhood I've had a perfectly morbid fear 
of snakes. It was born in me, I think. The first thing 
I think of in seeing a view is whether it looks as if snakes 
live there. That's why I like mountains. Snakes don't." 

"You should delight in the scenery about the North 
Pole; or why did you never emigrate to Ireland.'" 

"The Arctic is too cold; and I never believed the Irish 
legend. Here everywhere I look I have a certainty that 
there isn't a single wriggle." 

"There is where Paradise has the advantage of Eden." 

"Poor Eve!" Marion said. "There must have been 
something wrong about her in the first place, or she'd 
have run away the moment the serpent came in sight." 

"It would have saved a lot of trouble in the world if 
she had. By the way, how long have we been here?" 

Marion looked at him in silence a moment; then she 
made an exclamation of surprise. 

"Why, Harold, I must be losing my mind. I haven't 
an idea. Really, now you ask me, I couldn't tell whether 
it is months or weeks. It's dreadful!" 

"Why is it.?" 

"What.' Not to know anything about time.'" 

He smiled, and reached over to possess himself of her 
hand. Getting it, he stroked the fingers softly. 

"You forget, my dear," he said, "that we have nothing 
to do with time. We are in eternity." 

She looked at him wide-eyed. 

"But of course one must remember how long ago 
things happened." 

"Why.'" 

"Why.' Because." Then in answer to his smile, she 
added: "One always has." 

" You haven't since we have been here. Has it bothered 
you.'" 

She considered a minute, knitting her brows in the 
effort to think out this novel problem. 

"I've never thought of it!" she said at last. "Now 
that I have, it will bother me." 

"Why should it.'" 

"One is so used to it. I shall feel as if I were losing 
my identity." 

"I will convince you of your identity, if that s all the 
trouble. You have been used to a good many other 
things, — your work in hospital, the noise of the guns, the 
terrible strain, and all the rest of it. You do not bother 
to miss them." 

A longer silence fell between them. 



BAZAAR DAILY 



75 



"And to think I never thought of it!" she murmured 
at last. 

"You have told me \-our youthful terror," Harold 
said, still stroking her fingers; "I'll tell you mine. I had 
a perfect horror of eternity. Once when I was a kid, the 
curate — he was a dreadful prig — heard me complain that 
the time till Christmas was so lon^. He thought it a 
fitting opportunity to plant a theologic seed. He hadn't 
much sense. I don't fancy he was ever a boy. So he 
asked solemnly; 'How will you stand eternity.'' That 
goes on forever.' I did not see the connection, and I 
don't yet; but somehow I got to brooding over the idea. 
I began by hating eternity. Then I came to dread it, 
and so on to a morbid fear which I never confessed while 
I was alive, and which got so twisted into my fibres as a 
youngster that as long as I lived I couldn't get rid of it. 
That's why I thought of the question here." 

"And you still dread it here.'" 

"My dear," he answered with a happy little laugh, 
"it came over me the other day when you said something 
about time, that I needn't dread eternity any more. I'd 
been in it ever so long, and didn't even know it. I've 
gone about ever since like a man freed from a disease. 
What is eternity.'' It is only now." 

"But it is now forever." 

"Well, you don't live forever all at once. You only 
realize the noiv part of it. Besides, do we dread any- 
thing now.? I am quite content that a now so happy 
and so full of learning things should be extended forever." 

"It is very confusing," Marion said; "but I suppose it 
is all right." 

"Now it is now, and now it will be forever," he rejoined, 
kissing her fingers. "We can't be tired of it." 

"It sounds as if you were trying to tangle me in what 
I used to call your 'Alice logic' when you were at Oxford." 

The sun shone on them on the hillside; the softest 
breath of breeze came to them that had not wholly lost 
the good smell of the heaped apple-trees in the orchards 
below, and the odor mingled with the scent of the wild 
thyme in the grass where they lay. Harold gave a sigh 
of pure comfort and happiness. 

"And the now that is to last forever is so good," he 
said. "We are lucky folk, Marion. You can't tell how 
surprised and delighted I was the day I came to find that 
you had come too. It was more than any fellow had a 
right to expect." 

"Do you suppose," she questioned thoughtfully, "that 
if one of us had come first, the waiting here would have 
been blurred over because there is no time in Paradise .?" 

He stopped caressing her fingers, and looked at her. 

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "that's a wonderful idea, 
little woman. Perhaps it's so; and it's only the one 
left behind that finds the separation so terrible. It would 
be merciful. Though I am sure," he added with a shake 
of his head, "that I should never have been able to get on 
without you, and not know it." 

She laughed happily. 

"Oh, you are different from all other created men, my 
lord Harold. Do you know, one of the most wonderful 
things about being here is the way in which we've left 
all hard feelings behind us. If I were alive, I should be 
breathless with hate for the Germans that blew up our 
hospital, now — well, now I don't think I feel anything 
but pity. Somehow it isn't possible to hate in Paradise." 

"I suppose it wouldn't be Paradise if it were. Any- 
way," he went on with a whimsical smile, "it saves a lot 
of energy." 

He looked out over the lovely peaceful landscape where 
the afternoon shadows were growing long. 

"I have thought a good deal," he resumed, "about the 
differences in the way we feel about things that stir us 



tremendously on earth, and it seems to me something 
like this. Down there we were too near things, too much 
mixed up with them, too much influenced by personal 
interests. We couldn't get any fair perspective, any 
proper point of view. It was in one way better that 
we couldn't, of course; for we had our work to do, and 
we could do it more whole-heartedly, if we were passion- 
ate over it. A demigod, perhaps, could go ahead and do 
his job just the same without any feeling; but when it 
comes to men, they must put their hearts into it, and 
take sides with real passion." 

"Yes," Marion assented thoughtfully. "Of course 
that is true; but even then a man needn't lose his sense 
of humanity." 

"He needn't, and I don't think anybody could honestly 
say that our side did; but I see now as I didn't use to how 
it may come about that men do. Since we came here 
we learn directly, and I think we learn even more by tak- 
ing things in as we breathe, — as if we got them out of the 
air. Don't you feel as you never dreamed of feeling, 
what a big thing the universe is, and how magnificent 
the progress of life is.? We know better than ever how 
absolutely necessary it is that the evil thing shall be 
crushed out, but we are so sure beyond all doubting that 
it will be, that we look at it differently. I don't think 
here we can hate men because they are fighting for the 
wrong, any more than we could hate a snake for being a 
snake, — the poor rascal can't help it." 

"Well, I am not sure that even now I couldn't hate a 
snake, if I gave my mind to it," she responded, answer- 
ing his bantering smile with one as sunny. 

"I doubt it. Here you couldn't hate one if you tried 
as hard as the White Queen did to believe impossible 
things." 

"Perhaps," she broke in with whimsical irrelevance, 
"that explains Eve. Eden was like Paradise then, so 
she naturally couldn't hate the serpent." 

"So Eye is rehabilitated at last. The point is so well 
taken that it is a pity you didn't think of it while you 
were alive." 

The banter brought them to another pause. Then 
with a sudden movement Harold sat up and waved his 
arm abroad to the outspread lovely country and the blue 
sky meeting the low blue hills. 

"Oh!" he cried, "how wonderful it all is! Evil is evil, 
and that means that it is something to be killed out; and 
it means there on earth more pain than words have been 
devised to express; but to be here, and to realize how it is 
equally true that good is good, and that whatever happens 
it is the one immortal thing on our old little round globe, — • 
my dear Marion, it takes my breath. It is only the good 
in us, little woman, that has won through to Paradise. 
That is why we can't hate any more, or see things in a 
selfish or one-sided way." 

"Yes," she said gravely, nodding her head. 

She sat up in her turn, and let her fingers stray among 
the soft grasses beside her. She looked down in a reverie, 
and he equally thoughtful, toward the distant hills. 

"I have so much to learn," she said at last. 

"So have all of us, — an immeasurable lot to learn. 
That is the joy of it. We all learn so well, too, where 
every single being is employed in doing what he is best 
fitted for; and the best of it is that there is no end of the 
wisdom to be gained. Oh, the unspeakable joy of it!" 

He sprang up lightly, and stood reaching down his hands 
to help her rise. 

"My dear Marion," he said, smiling, "I have only one 
trouble. I was afraid when I was a kid because eternity 
was so long; now I begin to be afraid that it will be too 
short!" 

Egdqn Craige. 



76 



BAZAAR DAILY 



BAZAAR DAILY 

Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 

Editor, ARLO BATES 

contributing editors 

William Dean Howells 
Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 

Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 

The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the Allied 
Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
taken at the booth. 

COPVRir.HT, I0l6. BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 

Merry Christmas and good-bye. 



Subscribers who are without copies to which they are 
entitled, may have these by application to the Editor. 



Copies of the Boston Mother Goose that remain will be 
put on sale at Butterfield's bookstore, 59 Bromfield St. 



The linen, glass, and kitchen equipment of the 
restaurant in Talbot Hall were generously provided by 
Mr. Joseph J. Sheehan. 

The Editor's Callers. 

"Of course people tell all sorts of stories," Dorinda 
said with an air of firmness, "and you may be as sceptical 
as you please; but I know the story is true." 

"If you know it is true," the Editor returned, "why 
did you ask if I supposed it could be.'" 

"What has that to do with it.'' I wanted to see how 
it would strike you." 

"It strikes me as an especially stupid slander." 

"I might know you would stand up for Mrs. ffrench; 
and she dyes her hair too." 

"Stand up for her.? I detest the woman. She should 
have been born in a melodrama or a sensational novel." 

Dorinda nodded her head triumphantly. 

"There," she said. "I knew you'd have to believe it." 

"Believe what.'' This idiotic story.' Mrs. ffrench is 
various kinds of fool, but she is not an imbecile. I no 
more believe it than I believe she is entitled to the two 
little f's at the beginning of her name." 

"Hasn't she any right to them.'" demanded the visitor. 

"Her husband was a perfectly respectable grocer with 
plain 'French' on his sign." 

"One can believe anything of a woman who would 
change her name like that. You just have to believe it." 

"As you please," the Editor said, smiling. "To the 
masculine mind the proof is not entirely convincing. To 
believe a thing is not to make it true. The truth is, that 
most of the ill-natured tales afloat in society are believed 
simply because folk wish to believe them. It is the com- 
monest expression of 'the will to believe' of which we 
hear a lot in theologic controversy. Any trifling hint 
is enough to start a scandal on, and once started, it grows 
like a cabbage, layer on layer. It's a wise scandal- 
monger who can recognize his own invention after it 
has been told by half a dozen mouths." 

"I don't see what you are talking about," Dorinda 
observed with a slightly injured air. "Of course people 
are awfully vicious about spreading stories." 

"Everybody but the charming Dorinda. Still, I 
should like to know exactly the form in which you heard 
the tale about Mrs ffrench which you have told me so 
circumstantially. Oh, don't blush. I was merely going 
to say, however, that as a rule the additions come from 
the effort to make the story better. It is the art instinct 



working to make a tale effective. We owe most that is 
best in fictitious literature to the impulse." 

"But of course if Mrs. ffrench's husband was a grocer," 
Dorinda remarked, "people ought to know it." 

"I am not sure that I see why it matters, and I cer- 
tainly have never felt, Dorinda, that it was my business 
to tell them. Perhaps it is yours. There's another 
side to this artistic impulse, too, now I think of it. We 
always tell a thing best when it is absolutely fresh and 
new in our minds. Instinctively when we relate any- 
thing we work up to effects by inventing details or addi- 
tions. If a man tells an anecdote really well, it is safe 
to assume that a good part of the details are his own." 

"But you said she had no right to the double f." 

The Editor leaned forward impressively. 

"Dorinda," he said, "if your sex had powers of co- 
ordination equal to their power of persistence, they 
would run the Universe. I was imparting to you deep 
psychical truths, and you are interested in nothing but 
that rather cheap social pusher. By all means invent 
something new about her. Did it never occur to you, for 
instance, that her pearl eardrops are of the same pattern 
as Mrs. Compton's.' Mr. Compton was devoted to 
Mrs. ffrench at one time." 

"I always supposed those pearls were false!" exclaimed 
Dorinda, in evident excitement. "Oh, did he really 
give them to her.'" 

"Heaven forgive me!" cried the Editor. "I've loaded 
that unfortunate grocer's widow with another scandal, 
and I invented it on the spot." 

"Perhaps you did," responded Dorinda, calmly. 
"Perhaps you didn't realize what you were saying; 
but now I think of it, I am sure it is true. How stupid 
of me not to have seen it before!" 



The Battlefield at Chambry. 

When, a few years from now, American travellers 
flock to France — and France is already looking forward 
to the day, and preparing to receive them — there will be 
very few places north and east of the capital which will 
not have their tale to tell. From the outer fortifications 
of Paris, with their trenches and wire entanglements, to 
the frontier; from the lofty terrace of St. Germain and 
the heights of Montmorency — whence the German out- 
posts looked off to Paris, that Promised Land they were 
fated, though so near, never to enter — to the long line of 
trenches from Belfort to Lille — to be preserved and tree- 
planted as the Holy Land of French heroism and sacrifice 
— all France has become historic. 

But most real pilgrimages will logically begin on the 
scene of the thrilling "right about face" of the left wing 
of the French army on the morning of September 5, 1914, 
when the Battle of the Marne really began — the plains 
of Chambry, two miles and a half north of Meaux. 

It was eight weeks to a day after that trying Saturday, 
when, from the hill on the south bank of the river, we had 
watched the battle, that I first stood on its scene. The 
impression was a strange one, as disconcertingly unlike 
what I had anticipated as had been the distant view of 
the battle. 

The surprising thing was the utter inability to conjure 
up any of the horror of the battle. Less than two months 
had passed, yet fifty-six days had sufficed to wipe out 
all but the inspiring, uplifting beauty of the scene. 
Already the fields had been cleared, the grayes put in 
order and marked, and the winter grain planted all about 
them. Where they had fallen, alone or in groups, there 
they slept, in the breast of the Motherland for which they 
had died, with their faces to the frontier from which they 
were no longer retreating. Each grave already had its 
cross at the head and its tiny tricolored flag flapping in 



BAZAAR DAILY 



77 



the breeze at its foot, and, though the crosses were hastily 
made of two rough bits of twigs from which the bark had 
not been stripped, there was nothing ugly about it, and 
no grave lacked its bunch of fresh flowers. 

This is third All Saints' Day since the battle, and the 
French have a real cult for the dead. Crowds of pil- 
grims .are tramping across the muddy battlefield (for 
rains have been heavy this year), and already each grave 
has its new flag at its foot, while a wealth of chrysan- 
themums and asters — the only flowers that withstood 
the sudden early frost of October 21 and 22 — make the 
field a garden of color. 

With each season the scene takes on a new look, but 
it is always a look of beauty, something finer, something 
more significant than mere sadness, though that may de- 
pend on the point of view. 

I saw it when the freshly ploughed soil was brown 
about the graves, and when the primitive crosses were 
still in place. I saw it when the young green of the 
winter grain was sprouting tenderly to the very edge of 
the mounds on which the turf was beginning to grow. 
I saw it after the soldiers on "home leave" had replaced 
the rude crosses with tall white ones, encircled each 
grave or group of graves with a post-supported barrier, 
and cut about each a narrow foot-path, and when the 
flowers were beginning to bloom. I saw it when the 
grain was tall and ripening, and when the white crosses 
appeared and disappeared, as the yellowing wheat undu- 
lated in the breeze like the waves of the ocean. I saw it 
when the wheat was being cut, and when, in places, 
groups of white crosses stood at the «nd of long vistas, 
between golden walls of the yet unmowed stretches, and 
then I saw it again after the harvest, when the ploughs 
were moving slowly across the plain. But at no season 
has it ever seemed to me anything less than inspiring, 
marking, as it does, for all eternity, the outer rampart 
which saved Paris. 

I remember it perhaps most vividly on a late June 
afternoon in 1915, when I looked over it from the cross- 
roads between Barcy — the nearest hamlet to Paris that 
was practically destroyed — and Chambry, in the tiny 
walled cemetery from which the Zouaves made one of 
the most brilliant charges of the second day of the 
battle. There, at the cross-roads, already rose the 
monument which marks the limit of the German in- 
vasion. As I stood there, with my back to Paris, looking 
across the grave-sown plain, to where, wide-spaced 
against the sky, on the horizon line, the little tricolored 
flags were like tiny flowers, only the red being visible, 
it was the quiet animation of the scene which touched 
me, for everywhere, across the level fields, groups of the 
living were moving about the last homes of the dead, — 
women pushing baby carts, children with their hands 
full of flowers, boys and girls running at play, and here 
and there a convalescent soldier from the ambulance at 
Meaux marched, erect and serious, from grave to grave, 
standing a moment at "salute," at the foot of each, and 
carefully averting his eyes as he strode by a black disk 
with its number in white which said, "Here among the 
noble dead lies one of the invaders." 

The traveller will see more amazing sights than the 
graves on the plain at Chambry when he visits France 
after the war, — sights which will smell more of battle, 
that will tell more realistically the terrible story of 
horror and devastation and destruction, — but he will 
see nothing more symbolic. There is many a cemetery 
in France which will call for bitterer tears, but no spot 
will stir the imagination like this grave-gemmed plain. 
There the sons of France sleep in the midst of the 
homely scenes of rural life. The every-day labors of the 
people for whom they died will every day and eternally 



go on about them. The crops will be planted and 
tended and harvested, and the stir of labor and the mur- 
mur of life be always with them. There is something 
compelling as well as beautiful in the idea that there 
where they fell they sleep forever, each in the very bit of 
his Motherland which he saved — for it is Motherland, 
not Fatherland, to the French soldier. Most consoling 
of all — since Death is inevitable — not one of them who 
sleeps on that plain lived or died in vain. Here where 
he made his stand life is already normal. Even the 
hamlets which suffered from bombardment, though sad, 
are not unpretty. Just as the humble people wear their 
grief with a smile, so nature has already sown green 
things on falling walls so that destruction has already its 
beauty and a certain nobility. It bears witness to what 
has passed that way, but it wears the sign like a decora- 
tion. 

Mildred Aldrich. 



The Frightened Prayer. 

The prayers of the wounded and the dying fluttered up 
through the choking smoke of the battlefield, through the 
reek of smells too horrible to be thought of, up through 
the scalding gas, ultimate expression of humanity's 
possibilities of inhuman cruelty. Across the wide, cool 
stretches of space they went winging to Heaven, like 
white birds; but with them went no taint of the foulness 
from which they had risen. 

In the flying throng was one so small, so weak, so 
timorous, that hardly could it be possible for it to cross 
that great void. It had come, only a single phrase, 
from lips that had never spoken prayer before; but that 
now, in the last agony of mangled, suffocating dying, 
spent their last breath in this appeal. Many of its 
flocking companions outstripped it, and the winds of 
space buffeted its doubtful flight. It was full of terror; 
the fear of a heart passionately aware of unworthiness, 
and despairing to be heard; yet somehow it went on, and 
at last, timid and painfully fluttering, it won to the 
battlements of Heaven. 

And on the battlements of Heaven stood joyous 
young angels to welcome these supplications, and to bring 
them into the court where they must be heard. Like 
flocking doves the white prayers came flying up, and the 
angels held out their arms for them, so that they should 
light there. They lighted, too, on the shoulders, and 
even on the hair of the shining ones. Then the little 
prayer fluttered affrighted, and dared not settle to the 
gracious resting-place; but wavered and faltered. 

"Oh, the poor little, feeble, frightened prayer!" the 
youngest angel cried pityingly. 

Slowly she moved toward it as if it were a shy nestling; 
and when at last she had persuaded it to settle tremblingly 
on her hand, she softly lifted her hand to her throat, and 
let the frightened thing nestleunder her chin; and when 
it was warm, and had ceased to tremble, she coaxingly 
won it to her caress; till at last she could place it in her 
bosom. There it lay snuggled and secure, while she took 
other incoming petitions until they clustered all about 
her arms and neck. Then she went delicately and joy- 
ously into the court of Heaven. 

There when she had presented all the other prayers 
which out of the terror of the battlefield had come soar- 
ing up to the peace and mercy of Heaven, she put her slim 
hand into her bosom, and drew out the little prayer. 
And, lo! it was white like the whiteness of her own angel- 
robes, and it shone with the rainbow sheen of a tear of 
penitence. And the other angels, seeing it, clapped their 
hands for joy. 

Egdon Craige. 



78 



BAZAAR DAILY 



The Knitter. 

What do you do, Little Sister, 

Murmuring there in the sun? 
"If you please, I am counting my stitches. 

My new knitting is just begun." 

What do you knit, Little Sister? 

A scarf for your shiny gold head? 
"Oh, no! let my hair go uncovered. 

1 knil for a lad instead." 

And who is the lad. Little Sister? 

Your own lad by love and by right? 
"Oh, no, if you please, it is any dear lad, 

Barefooted there in the fight." 

When I saw your bowed head. Little Sister, 
And your moving hand on your knee, 

I thought you were slipping along the beads 
In Our Father and Hail Mary. 

"Oh, yes, if you please, I pray as I count. 
And the stitches and prayers make the sum. 

Two is for England, four is for France, 
And six is for Belgium. 

"And all the great fellowship follows. 
Woven in, row after row. 
I pray as I knit and I knit as I pray. 
Binding oif with Amen at the toe." 



Alice Brown. 



The Friendly Tinker. 

The word "tinker" is not in good favor; it carries 
with it an idea of pettiness; it used to be associated with 
Gypsies and thieves. Not even the pious Bunyan lifted 
it entirely from its disrepute. The typical tinker swore, 
too, and the "tinker's damn" was synonymous with 
something weak and futile, and expressed the disfavor of 
his fellow-men. 

In the little Maine village where I grew up, the tinker 
bore a name which rhymed with Tennyson, and he was of 
equally aristocratic lineage. Tennyson was merely the 
son of Dennis and Kennyson was equally the son of 
Kenneth, harking back to the day when patronymics 
sufficiently indicated relationship and family. 

Our tinker was a farmer on a small scale; his house 
was a tiny cottage such as are to be seen by thousands 
dotting the hillsides of New England. He kept a lively 
barking dog which inspired far less fear than a huge 
barking turkey-gobbler left loose and ready to attack any 
passing or encroaching tramp or small boy. He had the 
traditional steed, and made periodical rounds, coming 
about when he was expected like the January thaw or the 
line-storm. The farmers' wives generally collected against 
his appearance all the pots and pans that needed his 
loving attentions. I can see as vividly as if the scene 
were here and now his beguiling paraphernalia: the 
snake-headed tool which grew red-hot in the fire; his 
little pot full of lumps of solder, which as they felt the 
flames began to manifest signs of life, sending out little 
streams of silvery liquid like arms: it was not hard to 
imagine that they had much the same feelings as live 
lobsters when they from "black to red began to turn." 
I can still smell the sizzling rosin. It was a fascinating 
operation — that of stopping holes in dish-pans and coffee- 
pots, far more entertaining than to watch the darning of 
holey socks. 

Our worthy tinker dealt in tinware, which might cause 
one to imagine that the word had something to do with 
that valuable metal; but it has not: it was suggested 
rather by the tinkle of the glittering commodities that he 
carried to sell or exchange. Piers Plowman associates 
peddlers and tinkers, and undoubtedly a good many 
tinkers gradually dropped the mechanical part of their 



vocation and took on a wider range of trade, even to re- 
nouncing the travelling store to settle down in some grow- 
ing town or city, and ultimately acquiring wealth, posi- 
tion, and the accompanying pride, to be handed down to 
their descendants. Such was not the case with Tinker 
Kennison. He had no inordinate ambition or acquisitive- 
ness: he was satisfied with his humble profits, just as the 
village housewives were satisfied with the milk-pans and 
baking-tins which they bought of him to replace those 
that had been repaired too many times. 

Tinker Kennison had a brother who was a deacon in 
the Congregational church and had been a semi-invalid all 
his life, although he was a volunteer in the Civil War and 
came back minus a leg, and it was generally supposed 
that he was going to die sometime of consumption. He 
coughed terribly, even during "Divine service," until 
one day he coughed up a straw-halm or the serrate dart 
of a grain of oats which, like the spear of African tribes, 
goes in easily and cannot be drawn out. This had lodged 
in his lung. It was like getting rid of the last of his wild 
oats; he got well and a second wife. His example was 
contagious. The tinker who had lived alone and forlorn 
decided to go and do likewise. 

In the village lived at the poorhouse an orphan girl. 
He had seen her there while engaged in his trade. He 
went to the town authorities and made them an offer so 
tempting that it was irresistible: he would take the girl 
off their hands on condition that his taxes should be re- 
mitted. He married her, and she made him a devoted 
wife. To use a Maine idiom, it was "a fruitsome place," 
and every year there was a new little Kennison to share 
in the tinker's humble lot. 

It used to annoy him when his patrons asked him ques- 
tions about his growing family. He would never answer 
verbally, but when the inquisition began he would take 
off his ragged old cap, which had done service in winter 
and summer, in rain and in sun, for many years, and 
mutely hand it to the questioner. There, written in 
pencil, with many excellent examples of decorative 
spelling, would be found all that he had decided it was 
meet for inquisitive gossips to know about his family. 
He himself was never a gossip. Naturally he knew many 
things about the various homes where he went; the 
women on the farms lived lonely lives — for it was before 
the day of the rural telephone — and were wont to pour 
their troubles into his outcropping ears. He listened 
patiently, made few comments, and never repeated what 
he heard. In that respect, at least, he was a gentleman. 
He was also absolutely honest. He never attempted to 
take advantage of any of his customers either in his work 
or in his sales. He was an odd-looking man, outlandishly 
dressed, small and weazened, with ragged trousers 
flapping around his thin legs; but he had a pleasant smile 
and when he spoke he spoke to the point. He was 
weather-wise, like a sailor. "Weather-breeder" was his 
favorite word when the skies were particularly blue and 
the distant mountains (so thickly covered with huckle- 
berry-bushes that they, too, assumed the tint of the 
abundant fruit) seemed only a few miles away. "Good 
weather comin'," he would say when the storm was at 
its height. And he was generally right. 

That was many years ago, and he and his wife both (I 
suppose) are sleeping peacefully in the little graveyard 
at the side of the road which was once so valiantly guarded 
by the ferocious turkey-cock. Below, half hidden by tall 
pines, flows the same old Kennebec — the same and yet 
never the same. Since his day much water has flow^ed 
under the covered bridge whose rails are adorned with 
multitudes of initials; but I always cherish a kindly 
memory for Tinker Kennison. 

Nathan Haskell Dole. 



BAZAAR DAILY 



79 



The Wry-Necked Nora. 

The male pensioners of the Dartbank poorhouse sat 
in a forlorn group in the sun outside the porch-door, like a 
bunch of sea-wrack left by the retreating tide of time. 
They were enjoying what was one of their chief dissipa- 
tions, the hearing of a tale by Tim Calligan. 

"So it was the Widdy Nora Collins I was courtin','' 
he said; "not that I was in earnest, as ye might say, but 
Nora she was a broth of a girl, and all the boys was that 
jealous of me that they couldn't sleep nights. The 
Widdy an' me, ye must know, didn't see things single- 
eyed, as ye might say; for it was another weddin'-ring 
she was hankerin' for, an' I not so anxious to be tied up 
for good an' all, an' hopin' at the back of my head that 
Brig t Carney would be that put about that she'd come 
round, and say yes to me herself. 

"But there I was carryin' on with Nora Collins for all 
I was worth, an' all the boys mad jealous; an' I was after 
buildin' a new fishin'-boat. But the boat was a broth 
of a boat when I built her, an' bein' one evenin' 
at Timmy Finnegin's wake with a drop too much in me, 
ow!n' to Brigit's bein' so contrary and the Widdy so 
pressin', an' me gettin' mixed up like, I told Nora I'd 
name me new boat for her; an' she goin' around the night 
tellin' it, thinkin' that I'd be committed like. An' the 
real sore boy was Timmy Calligan when I thought it 
over, an' the wee drop had gone out o' me, and the cold 
daylight of to-morrow was puttin' the chills down me 
backbone. 'The Widdy's fooled ye, Tim, me boy,' says 
I to myself. 'It won't be long but she'll be Mrs. Cal- 
ligan,' says I, 'if you don't get your wits to work lively.' 
An' blessed be the handiworks of God, if at the very 
minute I was thinkin' what would I do, who should come 
down the road but Brigit Carney herself, lookin' like the 
rose of the world with the blessin's of angels on it fresh. 
'Mornin', Brigit,' says I. 'You be a sight for sore eyes,' 
says I. 'Timmy,' says she, holdin' up a finger, 'now 
you're engaged to the Widdy — ' ' Engaged to the Widdy, 
is it?' says I; 'I'm engaged to nobody but yer own self, 
an' you not ownin' to it, an' me heart all in smithereens 
kickin about me insides,' says I. 'She says you're to 
name yer fine new boat for her,' says Brigit. 'Begorra 
an' sorror o' me life,' says I, scratchin' me head an' not 
knowin' which way to look, ' may the devil fly away wid 
the woman, but she got a promise for that out of me when 
the poteen was in an' me wits all up the chimney,' says 
I. 'An' it'd never have been,' says I, 'but for you 
lookin' that sweet to squint-eyed little runt of a Pat 
O'Harrigan,' says I, 'that looks like a thing the cat brought 
in.' 'His neck's straight, at least,' says she. An' with 
that she took her foot in her hand, an' off she went. 
But her last words give me an idea, an' off I goes down to 
the shop, an' before the sun took his blessed red face out 
of sight that night I had the name put on that boat in 
big red letters, as tall as yer arm. An' it was the 'Wry- 
necked Nora' I'd be after callin' her; by the same 
token that before mornin' there wasn't a soul to the 
smallest wee bit of a spalpeen in the whole place that 
wasn't laughin' over the joke of it." 

" It was the very next night as ever was," continued Tim, 
taking up his parable, "that all of us, boys an' girls an' 
the whole caboodle of us, was down to Patsy Macgraw's, 
an' I see the W iddy confabin' with Pat O'Harrigan, an' 
he rufflin' himself up, tryin' to get the courage in him to 
do some contraption she was puttin' him up to; an' at 
last, just by way of cornerin' him, in that sweet way a 
woman has when she's that mad she could bite a spike 
into splinters, and is bound the man she has her hand on 
shall do her revengin' for her, up spoke the Widdy, an' 
says she: 'Tim Calligan,' says she, 'Pat's got that he 
wants to say to yer.' 'Faith,' says I, 'lucky is Pat to have 



a lady to let folks know when he's after wantin' to speak,' 
says I, 'for he's a little backward himself,' says I. Wid 
that she give Pat a shove that came near to knock the 
wind out of him, an' there he was close foreninst me', the 
poor little runt that had ought by good rights to been kep' 
in a bottle on a doctor's shelf, an' not let to run round 
showin' what a poor job was made when he was born. 
'Did yer name that boat of yourn.^' says Pat. 'I did,' 
says I; 'who else would be doin' hi' 'You've insulted 
a lady,' says Pat. 'Now will ye be after a-listenin' to 
that.^' says I to all the boys an' girls, makin' as if surprise 
was takin' the very heart out of me. 'How'll I be after 
insultin' a lady, Pat O'Harrigan,' says I, 'me that is 
known to be that fond of the sweet creatures that I'm 
ready to eat the very ground they're blessin' by trampin' 
on it.^' says I, makin' eyes at the girls outrageous. 'The 
name of yer boat's a flat insult,' Pat says he. 'Holy 
Mother of Mercies,' says I, 'did ever the ears of man hear 
the like of that! How could that be an insult?' says I. 
'Sure it couldn t insult a fly,' says I, 'without the creature 
had a wry-neck,' says I, as innocent as a new-born just 
scattered down from heaven. An' all the time the girls 
was laughin' fit to split, and the Widdy with her cheeks 
the color of the liver of a pig. An' Pat that beside him- 
self with rage that he knew no more what he was lettin' 
on to say than a blessed baby knows its father till it's 
been told, an' then not always bein' certain, owin' to the 
oncertainties of the flesh; only that he was bound would 
he beat me at the argufyin' if he died for it, and me only 
argufyin' for the sake of gettin' beat. Oh, it was a dandy 
Donnybrook Fair of a time, and many's the day the fun 
of it was told over agin. 'Ye know right well,' yells me 
Patsy, frothin' at the mouth till the eyes of him was like 
a red runnin' stream with the mad of him, 'that the 
Widdy's neck ain't straight,' say's he, all unconscious-like 
what word he was spittin' out between his teeth. 'Bless 
the mother that bore me!' says I, with a surprise that 
would have deceived an angel, 'do you mean to tell me, 
Pat O'Harrigan, an' shame to yer for the blackguard 
thought, that Nora CoUins's neck is a wry one?' An' 
with that I turned an' looked at the Widdy, and all the 
gatherin' screamin' wid laughter till 'twas only by the 
mercy of the blessed saints that none of 'em fell down an' 
choked to death that day. 'Well,' says I, most deliberate 
and considerin'-like, 'to see how an honest boy may be 
cheated!' says I. 'Now you will call me attention to it, 
though I think shame to ye for doin' the dhirty trick, the 
Widdy's neck ain't altogether accordin' to a plumb-line. 
But love is blind,' says I, raisin' my eyes to heaven, 
by the same token that one of 'em winked at Brigit on 
the way up, an' she stranglin' wid the deviltry of it. 'To 
think I never seen that afore,' says I. 'Sure I must have 
been in love with Mrs. Collins, owin' to which I couldn't 
see any defect in her more'n in an angel. Now I see there 
is a sort of a lean-over to the left in the Widdy's neck.' 
'There ain't!' screeched the Widdy. 'You're a liar an' a 
slanderer, an' if Pat has the heart of a louse, he'll tear 
the lyin' tongue out of that mouth of yourn,' says she. 
An' with that she kind o' hove Pat at me like a blind kitten, 
an' I was that big an' strong in those days that I made 
nothin' of takin' him up by the scruff of his neck, and 
settin' him in the Widdy's lap. 'You'd better keep yer 
puppy to yeself,' says I, cool-like, ' ef yer don't want the 
fur roughed up,' says I." 

Tim had by this time exhausted his breath, and so did 
not go on with particulars of the scrap that followed, and 
.of how the girls as well as the boys bore part in it. That 
portion of the tale had dropped away as he grew older; 
but when he had related it in his prime, his auditors found 
it easy to believe that long was the memory green of the 
Wry-necked Nora. b. 



80 



BAZAAR DAILY 



A 



To a Floor-Cloth 
Painfully knit from the Selvedge of Bandage-Cloth. 

Rough, ravelled, wrinkled as you are, 

I gaze on you with pride; 
The finest lace you outshine far. 

Its uselessness deride. 
I wronged you lately as I knit, 

And thought myself absurd; — 
You triumph of inventive wit. 

Economy's last word. 

Aly fingers masculine, I know, 

Were clumsy as I worked; 
I bungled painfully and slow, — 

But not one stitch I shirked. 
Sleep, who knits up Care's ravelled sleave, — 

Whatever that may be, — 
May now completely vanquished grieve, 

Her laurels come to me! 

Upon the ragged edge I've stood 

On many a painful day; 
But never had discerned it could 

Be useful any way. 
Now when I see your sturdy mesh, 

I stand with hat in hand, 
And honor wisdom in the flesh 

Of him your texture planned 

Go on your way. May all success 

Your cleansing course attend; 
To help men on toward godliness 

Your best assistance lend. 
Go, fight the insinuating germ 

That lurks in filth and grime. 
Your mission, — lengthy be its term, — 

Though humble, is sublime! 







Answers to Charades. 




,, 


Noitarotser. 


iS. 


Ycnamorcen. 


35- 


Liatruc. 


2. 


Lec.ie. 


19- 


Nostej 


?6. 


Otamot. 


3- 


Yponac. 


20. 


Etnarugif. 


37- 


Ratrat. 


4- 


Nacaep. 


21. 


Esuaceb. 


38- 


Tunlaw. 


5- 


Ekatsim. 


22. 


Rereviled. 


39- 


Kcormahs. 


6. 


Nairadeceba. 


23- 


Ycnellecxe. 


40. 


Egamad. 


7- 


Tnatabmoc. 


24. 


Noisnam. 


4'- 


Atnalata. 


8. 


Tnaromroc. 


25- 


Ytidereh. 


42. 


Egattoc. 


9- 


Edahsthgin. 


26. 


Niartauq. 


43- 


Tnednepedni. 


10. 


Odod. 


27- 


Tnemeganam. 


44- 


Osla. 


1 1. 


Eramthgin. . 


28. 


Tunaep. 


45- 


Ytilimuh. 


12. 


Nacnac. 


29. 


Etaunet.xe. 


46. 


Kcaspank. 


'}■ 


Nacuot. 


3°- 


Ydrat. 


47- 


Reednier. 


14. 


Petsni. 


31- 


Noitanodnoc. 


48. 


Nodnet. 


IS- 


Eruces. 


32- 


Etarutasrepus. 


49. 


Etagitim. 


16. 


Xificurc. 


33- 


Suolebil. 


50- 


Pintac. 


17- 


Noitaicossa. 


34- 


Ytud. 







Read backward, and my first you find 
Controls all human jo\' and fear; 

My ne.xt to trouble all mankind. 

Then forward read, — mv whole is here. 



After Sir Thomas Lipton had lost three races in this 
country, the American yachtsmen presented him with 
a loving-cup. It was decorated with the figures of the 
bison, the beaver, and the Indian, these being selected 
as typically American. The comment of a gentleman of 
Philadelphia was: " How appropriate. Three lost races." 



Old Mrs. McGinn is as deaf as a pin. 
And she's mad to go gadding about; 

She's bought her a tin that's a car when she's in, 
And an ear-trumpet when she gets out. 



Mr. X. was in the middle of a marital explanation, and 
rather inclined to lose his temper. "I do wish," he ex- 
claimed at last, "that you'd pay a little attention to 
what I say." "I'm paying as little as I can," responded 
Mrs. X., amiably. 



Howlers. 

[These are all genuine, and are taken from e.xamination-books written by 
the students of a leading Massachusetts school.) 

The unearned increment was a kind of plow used in the 
Middel Ages. 

Sidney lost his life in the defense of Poetry. 

The drama in the Middle Ages was held by the tenants 
of the church to be something opposed to the church 
doctrines. 

The Romans were a brand of Celts, but did not use 
stone weapons. 

C. Marlowe was one of the most important novelists 
of the Elizabethan era. 

Tennyson's work ranged widely. He was not chosen 
to any one particular sphere. He has two prominent 
lyrics, and also a some considerable dramatic. 

"The Idylls of the King" contains many beautiful 
poems, such as "The Vision of Sir Launfall," and "The 
Holly Grale," and "The Knight's Tale." 

Spencer was married, and wrote a poem to his wife, 
"Astrabeller Steller." 

Grocyn was the name of the young lady Spenser was 
in love with. 

Shakespeare never knew that Bacon was writing his 
plays because he was so interested in producing them. 

"Casterbury Tales" was written by Edward Spenser. 
Its plan is that of an allagory, and possibly Hawthorne 
got from this poem his idea for his "Tales of a Wayside 
Inn." 

Dryden's nature was so sensitive that he probably 
would not have published his poetry had there been 
then a poet greater than he. 

"Absolom and Achitophel" is an Arabic poem, and 
treats of the Bedouin nomadic life, giving an exceedingly 
vivid picture of two Arabians and the attachment of 
one of them to his horse. ^ 

The Roman Catholic church invaded Great Britain 55 

B.C. 

Columbus discovered America because when news- 
papers were started they told how this might be done. 

Columbus would have discovered America sooner, 
but he was uncertain where it was, because he could 
not trust the charts of that day, and the course was 
not marked on them right. 

Social economics is how you get into good society. 

A chemical reagent is an agent that sells chemicals, 
but not at first hand. 

[By a Chinese student.] Because when Chliorne per- 
form we find oxygen are a considerable amount of it 
contain as uses bleaching agent there are the amount 
of O. from a compound is work much better O get from 
air. 

Shakespeare's plays were in blank verse, and his 
other poems were in poetry. 

At the Reformation Europe cast ofF the Catholic 
Church, and became largely Christian. 

"Canterbury Tails" were plays that could not be 
acted because they were in prose. 

"The Daflfodils" was written by Wordsworth. The 
subject came to him one day in walking in the fields; he 
saw a daffodil and the poem is an elaborate description of 
the bird and its wonderful song. 

Defoe was a born liar, but he was a poet as you could 
tell because he wrote " Robinson Crusoe," but when he 
was old he reformed, and was known as Dean Swift. 

Amphibious means to beat the devil round the bush. 

[By a Chinese boy.] Tendril is the tip of the mustache 
of an insect. 

Drake on his voyage home from the Pacific sailed round 
the Cape of Good Hope to avoid the Suez Canal and the 
desert. 

W92 



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